


Depth of Focus

by westernredcedar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Art scene, Boring Harry, Illness, M/M, New York City, Photography, Poetry, Super-swishy Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York art scene, non-magical AU. For julythirtyfirst, who wanted poetry, Remus working in a grocery, Severus working as a photographer, a fic that is sweet but will hurt, a lot of misunderstandings and broken hearts. I used several other elements of your prompt as well, which I will leave to be discovered.<br/>Written for Snupin Santa 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the wonderful blpaintchart and lore.

The red light cast an eerie glow on Severus’s intense stare. He had yet to find a pair of glasses that suited both his nose and his ego, but his far-sightedness was not so pronounced as to hinder his work beyond requiring a good squint. He pulled the last print out of the final wash and ran the squeegee over it with efficient strokes before hanging it next to its companions on the line. With an expert glance around the room to be sure everything was properly stored and sealed, he pulled the cord dangling by his head.

The tiny room was flooded with light. Severus’s squinted eyes reduced to slivers as his pupils adjusted to the brightness. He removed his rubber gloves, one finger at a time, and ran them under the tap, right hand first, then left, and placed them on the drying rack by the door. He pulled his apron over his head and hung it on the hook in the corner. Only after this routine was complete did he turn to see what he had created.

This was his first set of prints for this series, and his expectations were low. He had only been in the city for two weeks, and shooting seriously for a week, and this first group was only an experiment, really, to test his dark room and see if he had captured any interesting subjects in his initial explorations. He didn’t expect to keep any of these photos. He planned to strategically map out his new environment in the next two weeks and find his artistic focus as the days progressed. He didn’t expect to glance up at these photos and have to draw in a breath at what he saw there. 

His intake of breath was, in fact, sharp and hard. 

The first two shots were trite rubbish, the type of urban scenes taken by every art student in their introductory photography course. He sneered at his own stupidity for thinking he should even print such drivel. The third print to the left, however, was a shot he had taken from in front of the corner shop (no, bodega) on the ground floor of his building in the early morning on his first day. He had captured an image of a small group of people waiting in the rain at the bus stop: three commuters pretending to read their ‘New York Times’, a bedraggled woman carrying several large parcels, and off to one side a tall man with a bag slung around his body and wearing headphones. 

It was the man who made Severus draw in his breath and crane forward to get a closer view.

The man had something, a charisma, a pull, which drew Severus into the silver halide light and shadow. He should not have been noticeable at all; despite being tall and broad-shouldered, Severus would have walked right past him on the street. But the man was standing with his weight on one leg, hip at a subtle angle, his hunched back seeming to hold up an invisible burden, arms crossed. He looked worn-through, thin and tired. His head was in three-quarter profile, his neck craned as if he had just been looking up the street for the bus, but Severus had snapped the photo at the exact moment the man’s dark eyes, shadowed beneath a solid and lined brow, had turned towards the camera. The expression he had captured was strange and empty, pleading. The man needed. He needed something, or someone. 

The wasted, hunched body, the vacant, hopeless eyes, and the indifference of those near him; this was one of the most enigmatic and interesting photos Severus had ever taken. 

It took some effort to turn away and finish his work. As he cleaned up the dark room, Severus repeatedly looked up at the stranger staring out at him from the photo whenever he passed the clothes line of prints. The dark eyes drew him back into the image every time. 

“You may have something there,” he said to himself, wiping his hands on his work jeans. He pulled down the print and brought it with him out of the dark room and into his small sitting room. As he made a cup of tea and sat down to drink, feet up on his ottoman, he kept the photo with him, glancing at it in pleasure. This damned city might prove inspiring after all.

Severus had arrived in New York just as the last autumn leaves were falling off the trees in small the park near his flat. No, his apartment. The Thomas Fellowship would support him for three months. By the end of the grant period, he needed to produce enough prints for a solo show at the (apparently) avant-garde Potter-Malfoy Gallery in SoHo. It was a very short timescale, but the challenge appealed to Severus, as did the opportunity to learn a new city. His discriminating eye was tired of the familiar landscape of London, and then there were his other, more personal reasons for wanting to be out of the country for a few months. It was all very convenient. 

He had selected this small flat (no, apartment) against his rental agent’s urgings. Although more run-down than he was used to in his London life, the atmosphere near this building was vibrant and photogenic in a way the more posh apartments she had shown him were not. The neighbourhood also seemed to be home to a large number of gay-friendly bars and businesses, and that had its appeal as well, although he did not mention that to his tailored, red-suit wearing rental agent. The building was small, and old, with no lift (correction, elevator) to bring his equipment and belongings to the third floor. The radiators were noisy and the paint was peeling in a few spots. To Severus, though, these flaws were easily overlooked in favor of the neighborhood and the character of the fl…apartment.

Another benefit of taking a place in a lower-rent building was that he could make some adaptations to the interior without trouble from the landlord. He noted the large pantry, which would easily convert to a dark room, and he was sold. 

Now all he needed was a bit of inspiration.

The reedy afternoon light began to fade, and his tea had gone cold. Severus realized he ought to get himself some food. He had been eating out for the past two weeks, but his wallet was not going to stand that lifestyle forever. There was the small corner shop (bodega, bodega) on the ground floor of the building. Severus decided it was time to see what they might have that he could put in his temperamental, noisy refrigerator to eat for supper. With a last glance at the vacant-eyed man staring out of his new print, Severus pulled on his coat and scarf, and strode down the stairs and toward the store.

* * * * *

The bodega had been quiet for an hour. Sitting behind the till, Remus had become fully immersed in his writing. Sunday afternoons were notoriously slow, and Remus had come to expect this quiet time to work. His boss, Eduardo, didn’t mind if he wrote, so long as he hid his notebook whenever anyone came into the shop. Eduardo liked to give the illusion that the bodega was always busy. Remus was startled when the electronic chime at the front door rang, and a customer entered. Hearing the ring, he jotted down two more words and shoved the dog-eared papers under the counter alongside the lost-and-found box and the small paper bags. He rested his hands on the counter and softened his expression, as if he had been waiting attentively for the opportunity to assist the next customer.

Remus had been working at the bodega for two years. It paid next-to-nothing, and certainly did nothing to change the world for the better, but for Remus it was perfect. He came in to work, stayed for his assigned shift, and left. The work took no effort, no mental energy, and he was able to focus all of his free time on his poetry. In fact, he even found the bodega fruitful inspiration for his work. He had been writing a series of portraits of his regular customers: Sam, who bought a 64-liter vat of Coke every night at eleven o’clock, the couple whose bickering over snack foods and beer was clearly foreplay, the doughnut ladies in the morning in the way to a day in the office, Joe, the saxophone-playing busker who haunted the subway station and paid in piles of filthy change. A longer work, about the life of the city at night, was percolating in his mind. 

The short commute, a thirty-second walk from his apartment, was an added and important benefit. 

With a sigh, Remus looked over at the man who had entered the store, hoping he would be quick, so that he could get back to work. Remus looked, and then he stared. He couldn’t stop staring, in fact. The man was a stranger to him, very thin and fairly tall, with long black hair that hung down in fine strands around his narrow face. He was dressed entirely in black, black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and an enormous but perfectly fitted black wool coat that almost swept the floor as he moved, a dark green scarf was casually slung around his long neck. In the enormous, convex security mirrors throughout the shop, Remus could see his wide mouth, enormous nose, high cheekbones, and dark eyes reflected from every angle. There was something about the elegant but casual clothes, striking face, and that hair, that was so horribly wonderfully out of place in the bodega, Remus couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

He was perfect. Unusual, unattainable. He made him think the word ‘sinuous’. Oh, bloody hell.

Remus hoped he had caught himself and shut his gaping maw before a slick of drool had actually dribbled down his chin. He looked down at his crappy NYU sweatshirt and ripped jeans, and made a couple of adjustments, trying to appear presentable. He needed to settle his rattled heart, and stand up a bit straighter. It wasn’t the easiest thing for him to do, at least today, but he tried. 

The new customer (Remus would have noticed him if he had been in before) was prodding the bin of pears with a dismissive air. The man held his chin up high, and the way he cast his eyes around the store, Remus knew that the shop was being judged, and harshly too. Remus had a moment of panic wondering if he might be some sort of city health inspector, but no civil servant would dress in such dramatic clothes, sweeping through the store with a menacing sneer, and Remus relaxed slightly. Well, he relaxed much as possible while his brain was flooded with lust. 

Remus cleared his throat, “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice come out in an odd, squeaky register.

The man’s dark eyes fixed on him, and Remus felt as if he were being stripped naked. He stared at Remus for far too long, a deep crease between his brows, his eyes squinting. Remus had to look away and say again, “May I help you?” in an attempt to keep from flushing.

Instead of responding the man strode towards Remus, questioning eyes fixed upon him, and asked, in the deep, creamy voice Remus knew he would have, “Do you wait for the bus just across the street?” The man’s voice made Remus want to melt into the floor, so it took him a moment to process the strange question.

“Across the street? The bus?” Remus said lamely, feeling heat flood his face.

The man looked away from him with a sudden turn of his head and murmured, “Never mind.” In the pause that followed, Remus’s mind was just barely capable of registering that they were both British.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked Remus, calming his voice into its usual pleasant tone.

“This shop seems inadequate to my current needs,” said the man, returning to his critical scan of the merchandise. 

“Oh. Sorry about that,” said Remus. He felt a bit wobbly and sat down on the tall stool behind the counter.

“The pears are all overripe.”

“I’m afraid that is all we have,” Remus replied. “Did you want fruit? The bananas were delivered yesterday and they look decent. Not a pear, I know, but most of what we have in the shop is packaged food, snacks and such. At least the bananas are fresh.” Now Remus felt himself babbling. Fabulous. 

The man in black had stopped and was staring at Remus again, and Remus felt the blush creep up his cheeks and into his scalp. He held onto the counter to keep steady. After a long moment, the man looked away.

“Bananas will have to do.” He spent some time selecting a small bunch from the cardboard box by the pears. Remus rang him up. As the man passed him a few bills, their hands brushed gently, and Remus shivered. The man’s long, thin fingers were carefully manicured and tended, and Remus quickly hid his own rough, ink-stained hands. 

“Thank you, come again,” said Remus, as Eduardo required, handing the man his bag of bananas. 

Dark eyes lingered on Remus once more before he turned and swept out of the store, the electronic chime heralding his exit. 

Remus sat on his stool and stared at the door for a few minutes before grabbing his notebook from under the counter and scrawling a few of the words that were swirling in his brain. 

_You appear to be  
Probing   
For the perfect   
Pear.  
They tremble in your presence,   
Jostling for position,   
Hoping to impress you.  
It is no use. You log every  
Lump, spot, nick, bruise,  
(I see you keeping score),  
Smell, which you check with eyes closed,  
Touch, with  
Gentle pressure on the fragile skin,   
Long fingers seek exactness.  
None fit your   
Strict expectations,  
And you  
Return them to the bin with a   
Sneer of derision.   
Bananas will have to do. _

It needed work, but Remus was pleased. Perhaps his immediate attraction to the stern man in the black coat could be channeled into his writing? He might as well, he thought, as he was hit with a faint tingling dizziness. After all, what were the chances that he would ever see that man again?

* * * * *

Walking out of the bodega with bananas (bananas?) Severus, never one to become befuddled, was cross with himself for his behavior. He might have spooked the poor man, after all, and didn’t want that, but it had been impossible not to stare. He had spent all afternoon contemplating the most fascinating face he had ever photographed, and then, in a city of millions, had walked out of his flat and straight into the man in question. He was not sure what to make of this fact, but he knew he would do almost anything to photograph that weary, intriguing face again, somehow, now that he had seen him in person. 

Looking skeptically at the bunch of bananas, he took the stairs to his apartment two at a time and called for Chinese take-away.

* * * * *

That night, Severus heard his neighbor for the first time. He had been sleeping fitfully as he adjusted to his new home, and every unusual sound woke him easily: pigeons cooing on his window ledge, sirens from the firehouse down the block, two queens having a loud argument in the middle of the street at 4 a.m. This was a new one, though.

The deep, rhythmic moaning could be only one thing, and the squeak of bedsprings confirmed his suspicions. Apparently, the walls were thin, and his neighbor’s bedroom was adjoining his. Severus flushed with embarrassment in the dark, but he could not stop himself listening. It was a man, well, men he supposed, as no sounds echoed in a feminine register, and they were taking it slow. Severus remembered how long it had been since he had really enjoyed slow, passionate…well, the last months with Luke had been…well, best to not think of Luke. Ever.

Severus turned on his side, and pulled a pillow over his head, trying to shut out the throaty, patient moans. The last thing he needed was to be aroused by anonymous sounds through his wall, when being here in New York was supposed to be his chance to get away from that sort of thing. He started mentally reciting the items on his to-do list for the next day to drown out the sounds. It helped, and in a few more minutes the moaning peaked and died away and Severus was able to drift back to sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning, Severus had to wake rather early in order to make it over to SoHo in time for his first meeting with a Mr. Malfoy at the gallery where he would be showing his work. He was a bit out of sorts after his night of interrupted sleep, especially as he did not do well in the mornings under normal circumstances. 

Waiting at the curb, Severus glanced over at the deserted bus stop, wondering if his bodega cashier was a regular rider. Perhaps he could catch him there again, take a series of shots. He hailed a taxi and pretended not to hear the driver when he attempted to strike up a conversation. He was in no mood. 

The Potter-Malfoy Gallery was one of many posh looking galleries on its block, an understated sign hanging over the brushed steel door, big windows facing the street. Severus pushed open the door and stepped inside. 

The gallery was huge, large stretches of white wall reaching up to a ceiling that was at least twenty feet high. Severus immediately began reassessing his ideas for the show. He would have to find a lab with an oversized enlarger. This gallery cried for huge prints, really enormous pieces of art. He liked working large, so this gallery would be an excellent fit. He nodded to himself approvingly.

A door at the rear of the gallery opened and a figure emerged. He was slight and fragile looking, with white-blonde hair cut in some sort of asymmetrical, over-styled disaster. From across the gallery it was hard to tell, but Severus was fairly certain the man was wearing pink velvet trousers and a green velvet blouse, with a soft pink scarf draped around his neck. He walked towards Severus with a loose swagger.

“You must be Severus!” the colorful figure said in a loud, nasal voice. 

“Yes. And you are…?” asked Severus.

“I’m the Malfoy of ‘Potter-Malfoy.’ Don’t ask why I let that little brat put him name before mine. I think he uses hypnosis on me during all of the mind-blowing sex. But you can call me Draco.” The small man held out his pale hand and Severus shook it.

“Your name is Draco?” asked Severus skeptically, trying to keep a straight face. 

“Well, not my real name of course, but who wants to see a show at a fabulous gallery owned by an asshole named Eugene? Shit, no! Everyone calls me Draco, and if I get to know you well enough, I’ll show you why. It involves a tattoo, but that is all I’ll reveal today.” Draco winked and Severus flinched.

“Let’s go to my office, shall we?”

Once they had settled down to work, Severus realized that behind Draco Malfoy’s swishy, crass exterior, he was a serious businessman. He was organized and clear with his expectations of Severus, had a schedule of deadlines for publicity materials, hanging, opening party details, and sales. Severus was pleased with the situation, and felt that his work would be in very good hands.

After about thirty minutes, another man wandered into Draco’s office. He was short and dark haired. Draco hopped up from his desk.

“Darling,” he said, “this is Severus Snape. Severus, this is my partner, Harry Potter.” At the word ‘partner,’ Draco winked again, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips in mock seduction. “He’s got all the good contacts in the art world, so I keep him around. He’ll get the right critics here to gush about you,” said Draco, pinching Potter’s cheek. He was rewarded with a tolerant smile. 

Severus assessed Potter and decided, on the spot, that he looked to be the most dead boring man he had ever seen, especially in contrast to his flamboyant partner. His jeans and v-neck sweater appeared to be from The Gap, or horror of horrors, Old Navy. The only moderately interesting thing about Potter was his round, black glasses. 

As they shook hands, Severus said so. “You have interesting glasses.”

“Thanks. They are from a shop just down the block.” 

“Ah. Which one?”

“It is called Eyes on You, I believe.”

“Hmm. I need to buy some frames myself.”

Draco looked back and forth between the two of them. “Scintillating conversation, you two. Do stop, you’re turning me on.” Draco draped an arm around his lover’s shoulder and planted a sloppy sounding kiss on his cheek. “Severus, I think we are done for the day, unless you have any other questions?”

“No, thank you. It is clear you run a very successful business here.” 

“You should come down and see the show that we have opening week after next. A new young painter. She does really thought-provoking work,” said Potter. 

“Oh, I don’t usually do that,” Severus replied.

“Don’t do what?” asked Draco, his arms encircling Potter. 

“See other shows. I don’t like other artists,” said Severus. 

“Blow me, Harry darling, look at what we have here, an actual art snob,” said Draco with a laugh, but somehow the way he said it, Severus almost took it as a compliment. He allowed his mouth to twitch into a slight grin.

“Indeed. I really do not attend art openings. But I’ll think about it,” he said, and Severus realized with that concession that he rather liked Draco Malfoy. Potter handed him a glossy and professional postcard with the details of the art opening. 

“We’ve won him over,” said Draco brows raised in a deadpan, but then he grinned. “Stop by any time, or call if you need anything, you charmer.” 

“I will,” said Severus. He shook hands with both Draco and Potter, exchanging farewells, and headed back through the tantalizing gallery space and out on the street to find a taxi. 

He was relieved. He had not represented his own work for years. Luke had done all of the work with galleries. It seemed his show would be a great success with Draco and Potter handling it for him, he thought. Now he just needed to make some art. Bugger. 

* * * * *

Remus has slept in late after a very long night. His shift at the bodega started at eleven, so he hauled himself up a few minutes before he needed to leave and pulled on his clothes. With a vague thought that the man in black might return to the shop, he put on his nicer pair of jeans and a soft blue shirt that he thought complimented his eyes. 

Looking at the dark circles under his bleary eyes in the mirror, he muttered _You idiot_ to himself. 

The shop was busy, and Remus didn’t have much time to write. His back was killing him, and by three o’clock, all he wanted was to do was curl up on the slimy floor behind the counter and sleep. 

He looked up at the window during the lunch rush, and he could have sworn that he saw long black hair and dark eyes peering in and looking right at him, but when he looked back after finishing with a customer, no one was there. It had to have been his imagination, as usual. Remus sighed. Why did he have to have such ridiculous, complicated taste in men?

Remus fought through the remaining hours of his shift by pretending that each new customer was the man in the black coat. It passed the time.

* * * * *

That night, Severus was awoken by his noisy neighbor again. This time there was bit more thrashing about, a few bangs on the wall, and a couple of intense moans that went straight to Severus’s groin. It was moments like this when Severus wished he did not have such a vivid visual imagination, but he did. He could see his mysterious neighbor with his mysterious lover bent double over the edge of the bed, and try as he might, the lover looked a bit like Luke, and…shit. Severus slept the rest of the night on the chair and ottoman in the sitting room. 

When the first faint moaning started the third night, Severus sat bolt upright in his bed, and didn’t waste any time moving into the sitting room. As painful as it was going to be, he would have to talk to his neighbor in the morning. The poor man would most likely be mortified when he found out his last three evenings pleasures had been shared by his new neighbor through the wall, but Severus needed his sleep, and to not think about…well, any of that. 

He would talk to his neighbor in the morning.

* * * * *

Remus was exhausted. Standing at his kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal, it took all his energy to hold his head up and keep his feet. He had hardly slept for three nights, and if he had his way he would still be nestled in his bed right now. However, he had promised himself that he would swim every third morning, no matter what, and he managed to stumble his way out of bed, pull on his swimming trunks and tracksuit bottoms, and have quick bite before heading down to the bus stop. If he didn’t feel better after his swim, he would have to consider calling Eduardo again and trying to find someone to take his evening shift at the bodega. 

As he rinsed his cereal bowl, there was a knock at the door. Remus put down the bowl and pulled on his hooded sweatshirt as he made his way to the peephole to see who was in the hall.

* * * * *

Severus had slept poorly, and after tossing and turning for three hours in his chair, he decided to give up and go and shoot a few rolls in the early morning light. The crisp, dawn air woke him, and the city was quiet and frosty. Unfortunately, the walk around the neighborhood proved uninspiring. His eye was not connecting yet, and everything he did try felt amateurish and trite: an iron gate, a shopkeeper sweeping the pavement, a picturesque dumpster. It had all been done. Overdone. With a sigh, Severus headed home. He still had his camera slung around his body as he trotted up the stairs and paused at his neighbor’s door. 

_Better just get it over with_ , he thought to himself. _You need to get more sleep if you are going to create anything worth a damn._

Before doubt took over, he rapped on the door to 3C and stepped back.

Severus could hear someone approaching the door from the inside, and the sound of locks being pulled back. In the two weeks he had been living in the building he had never crossed paths with the resident of the next-door apartment. He felt the nervous tension of meeting a new person stiffen his spine and make his breath come a bit faster. His jaw tensed.

The door opened and Severus stared. Standing in the door was his bus rider, his bodega cashier, the only good thing he had captured on film in New York so far. The man was his neighbor, the moaner. Severus knew he should speak, but he was struck dumb at the coincidence. His only consolation was that the man in doorway seemed similarly speechless for the moment. Swallowing hard, Severus blurted his greeting. 

“I live next door,” he said.

“Do you?” replied the man in the door.

“I moved in two weeks ago,” Severus continued. He realized he had forgotten what he was supposed to be talking about. The weary, vacant affect that had so intrigued him in his photograph was also present in this man in person. His fingers itched for the camera, hanging at his side. 

“I’ve seen you at the bodega,” said the man. He looked as if he were just about to go and exercise. The man was wearing the same clothes he had on in Severus’s original photograph.

“Yes. Yes, the bodega,” said Severus. “Yes.” The two men stood staring at each other for a long moment.

“Did you need something?” asked the man finally, still holding the doorknob.

Severus pulled himself together and tried to get back on track. “Well, yes, you see, I have a busy schedule, and I have not been able to sleep for the last three nights, due to the noise. It seems,” he said, clearing his throat, “that our walls are quite thin.”

“Sorry, what noise?” As the man replied he leaned his tired-looking body hard against the doorframe, and Severus let his hand drift down to his camera. Everything this man did was so fucking photogenic.

“It appears our bedrooms share a wall,” said Severus, “and though I cannot fault your choice of activities, it has been keeping me awake. I really do require adequate sleep. I’m asking you to keep the noise down.”

The man’s full lips formed a little frown. “What do you mean?” he asked, and cocked his head to the side.

Severus took a deep breath. He was going to have to say it. His fingers fiddled with his camera strap. “The moaning. I can hear you. It sounds enjoyable, and I am not one to judge, but…” 

“Enjoyable?” 

“I just assumed…was it not pleasant? It sounded as though you were…gratified.” Severus wanted to sink to the ground and crawl away from this horrible conversation. It made him stand up straighter. 

The man in the door suddenly turned a deep shade of crimson. “Oh, you think…you think that I was…oh, no, sorry. I wasn’t…well…Let me just say I’ve been alone for the last three nights.” There was a pause, and the panicked eyes of Severus’s neighbor suddenly glinted in good humor. “Well, that doesn’t necessarily clear everything up, now does it?” 

Severus felt his own stubborn blush start to creep up his chest.

“I’m afraid we have a misunderstanding,” the man said. “I’m so sorry that I kept you awake with my moaning, but it was, in fact, moaning. The unpleasant type. I’ve been ill.”

If Severus had wanted to crawl away before, he now wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. 

“Oh,” was all he could manage to say.

“I’ll try to keep quiet from now on, I assure you,” the man continued, and sank a bit further against the doorframe, rubbing one hand on his forehead, which Severus now noted was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. 

Severus struggled for his voice. “Are you…recovered?”

The man smiled. “No, it is not exactly like that. I don’t recover. I have MS. I’m relapsing it seems, and the last few nights my stash of painkillers don’t seem to be strong enough for this round. I should be able to get to the doctor in the next day or two. I promise less moaning in the near future.” The man’s mouth twitched into a thoughtful grin.

Severus was not used to experiencing this much humility, well…ever, and his system was shutting down. He felt his mind turn to mush throughout the man’s friendly admission. Ill, MS, doctor, moaning, all blurred into one horrible fact: he was deeply embarrassed. He wanted to make his escape, but at the same time he wanted to stare at the interesting pattern exhaustion and illness had etched onto his neighbor’s face.

Without blinking, Severus tilted his camera up and out and snapped off four shots pointed towards the man in the door.

There was a pause. The man’s eyes were wide. 

“Did you just…take my picture?” he asked at last. 

“Yes,” said Severus, and he fired off five more frames as the man righted himself and crossed his arms firmly over his chest. 

“Please don’t.” His neighbor lifted his hand as a shield between himself and the camera. “I’m not…I don’t like having my photo taken.”

“I should go,” said Severus, and he started to move down the hall towards his own door.

“Wait, why the hell did you just take my picture?” 

Severus stopped and turned back to him. “I’m a photographer. It’s what I do,” he said, and lifted his camera towards the man leaning out of his doorway, taking one last shot. “You are an interesting subject.” With that, he turned away and jammed his key into the lock, hoping to escape into his flat (apartment! damn!) with some shred of dignity intact. He did not look back down the hall to see if the man was watching him go. 

Once inside, Severus collapsed against the door. 

He had to face the fact that the only subject that had inspired one ounce of artistic creativity in him so far was his sick neighbor who now probably thought of him as some sort of perverted insensitive freak and would never speak to him again. God, he needed to find something else to shoot. 

Severus sighed, but then hurried into the dark room. He wanted to see if the shots he had just taken were any good.

* * * * *

Remus watched the man in black rush away down the hall and dart into his apartment. His heart had been racing for the entire exchange. Here he was, this gorgeous, intimidating creature, whom he had assumed he would never see again, standing in his doorway. His neighbor. His neighbor! Shit, why did he have to come over today, when Remus felt like the floor of a public bus.

_You are an interesting subject._ Remus played that comment over and over in his head as he collapsed onto his sofa, downed another painkiller, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. 

_He only finds me interesting because I’m ill,_ he thought. _Still, he finds me interesting. That is not a bad start._

The urge to write came upon him, sudden and strong. He rotated on the sofa and pulled his notebook off the table by his head. He started a new poem. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _this will be a series._

* * * * *

It was three in the morning. 

Severus stood in the hallway, fist poised to knock at his neighbor’s door. It had been more faint, but obvious moaning had started about thirty minutes before. Now that he knew it was the sound of a man in pain ( _that_ man in pain, in particular, but he didn’t want to admit that), he was unable to move to the other room or recite a to-do list to drown out the sound. That pain was what had drawn him to the photo of his neighbor in the first place. He pictured the frames of film he had developed that morning. The artist in him was desperate to see how these moans played across the taut skin of his neighbor’s face. The photographer in him wanted to capture it again in black and white. A little nagging bit of him knew he wanted to comfort this fellow human being in trouble for baser reasons, but he ignored that bit.

With a deep breath, he knocked. 

It took a minute, but Severus finally heard the tell-tale sounds of the locks being dragged open. The door opened on a dark apartment. His neighbor, shivering, eyes shielded and cold (what Severus now realized must be the empty look of pain) was wrapped in a wool blanket and seemed about to fall over. When he saw Severus, his face fell.

He spoke in a thick, tired voice. “Shit, I’m really sorry. I tried to keep it down. I’ll be quieter.”

Severus looked at him and got the sudden and unwelcome urge to pull him into his arms and hold him up. Instead, he spoke. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

The man in the doorway looked up in confusion. “Sorry?”

“Tea. I’ve made a pot, and as you are awake, and I am awake, I thought you might want a cup.” 

“But I am the reason you are awake,” said the man.

Severus shrugged. “Do you accept?”

There was a pause as the man looked down at himself. “I’m not very good company right now.”

“Well, you are my company whether we are in the same apartment or not, so you may as well take me up on my offer.”

The man hesitated a moment before he said, “I’m not sure I can walk that far tonight.”

Severus inhaled sharply at the implications of that statement, including the implication that his offer of tea was accepted. “Where are your keys?” The man nodded towards a hook just inside the door. “Lean on me,” said Severus as he grabbed the keys off the hook. If he had doubted his neighbor’s need for assistance before, the heaviness of the weight that was transferred onto his shoulders confirmed it. 

“Have you taken your medication?” Severus asked before he locked the door. 

“Yes, I just took a dose,” was the murmur in Severus’s ear. Severus shivered at the light breath against his skin.

They stumbled down the hallway to Severus’s open door. He had turned on the lights and the radiator before walking next door, so it was a warm and welcoming, if starkly furnished, room

The man pulled himself away from Severus halfway across the rug. Wrapped in his blanket, he hobbled towards the black leather chair by the window. His legs were oddly locked together at the knees, which forced him into an awkward shuffle. Severus stood back and watched him, every move an intriguing photograph forming on his retina. He was broken and virile at the same time, and it was gorgeous. 

The man fell down onto Severus’s chair and hauled his twisted legs up onto the ottoman, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “I’m Remus, by the way,” the man said. He cracked his eyes open before Severus could respond and exclaimed, “Oh, I have that print!” The man’s (correction, Remus’s) eyes had fallen on one of Severus’s old ‘Night: London’ series that he had framed on the wall of the sitting room. Severus turned to him in surprise.

“You own that exact picture?” he asked.

“Yes, I adore it. It reminds me of home. Something in the pattern of lights of the Thames. I have it hanging just over my bed…” Remus closed his eyes and let out a little moan as his muscles writhed for a moment. Severus watched, quiet. He could see the pain roll through the lean body, linger, and pass away.

“Are you all right?” Severus asked. 

Remus sighed. “I think the pill is starting to kick in. Distraction is helping as well. Thank you. Where did you find that print, anyway? I think it is fairly rare.”

Severus sat up straight. “It’s mine, my art. I’m the photographer.” 

Remus opened his eyes wide. “You took that photograph?”

“Yes.” 

“You are Severus Snape?” 

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Well, aside from the fact that your name is printed on the poster hanging in my bedroom…yes. I own a book of your work. I’m…I’m a fan.” Remus had leaned up as he spoke, but another wave of pain abruptly forced him back into the chair. “Ugh, a fan. What a shit thing to say.” 

“Let me get you that tea,” said Severus, rising. 

“I cannot believe my neighbor is Severus Snape,” said Remus. 

Severus tended the tea pot and arranged cups on his tin tray. His heart was racing. What was it about this man that his heart seemed to race every time he was near him?

“You took my photograph today!” Remus said. “Severus Snape took my photograph. Fuck. That’s brilliant.”

Severus ignored Remus’s ecstatic remark, returned with the tea tray and set it on his small table. “How do you take your tea?” he asked. 

“One sugar,” said Remus, with a thin smile. 

Severus prepared Remus’s tea and handed it to him. 

“Not one for compliments, are you?” asked Remus. In the quiet of the room, Severus was sure that Remus could hear his pounding heart.

“No,” Severus said at last, taking a seat on the small sofa against the wall and sipping his tea.

“Ah. All right, then. No more compliments. So…” Remus looked around the flat. “What are you doing in New York?” he asked with a wide yawn.

“I was awarded a fellowship to come here and work,” said Severus.

“Congratulations,” replied Remus, taking a drink. “Sounds impressive.”

“It is,” Severus said. 

Remus grinned and said, “Ah.” 

Severus felt the need to explain himself. “It was a competitive field of artists, so I feel privileged to have received the award.”

“No, no, you have every right to brag. Your work really is incredible. Oh, sorry, I’m complimenting you again.” Remus had moved up a bit in the chair, and Severus noted the vacant, pained glaze in his eyes had faded a little, replaced by a tired blurriness. 

“What do you do?” asked Severus, eager to change the subject.

“Aside from what you know already of my challenging career as a grocery clerk? I am also a writer. A poet, really. Or I try to be.” 

“Have you been published?” 

“A few times, in literary magazines and such. Nothing you would have heard of.”

“I would suppose not.”

“Not a poetry reader?”

“No. I enjoy poetry. Auden. Whitman. Shakespeare. I just cannot stand amateurish literary magazine rubbish.” Severus looked up from his tea. “No offense meant.” 

Remus had an annoyingly patient look on his weary face. Severus breathed in the desire to take a picture of him, right that moment. “Oh, no, how could I possibly be offended by that?” Remus said in an amused tone, brows raised over his tired eyes.

Severus sipped his tea and changed the subject. “Why are you in New York?” he asked. 

“Oh, a few years ago I decided that New York is where a poet should live and suffer. Plus NYU pays me to teach a course every once in a while. So here I am. Do you have a cushion I could use for my back?” Remus asked, shifting a bit in the chair. 

Severus nodded and pulled a cushion off the sofa, passing it over to Remus. Remus tucked it behind him and sank down into the chair, burrowed in his blanket. 

“So you are here to suffer?” said Severus.

Remus closed his eyes again and settled into a sleeping posture. “I’ve been quite adept at it, as well,” he said, and sighed. “Shit. I don’t even know you, but if I fell asleep here, would that be a problem? I think the pill has kicked in and I’m not sure I can move.”

Severus rose and eased towards his camera. He had to get a picture. “That is fine. I’ll leave your keys by the door,” he said quietly, as he pulled out the lens he wanted and set the shutter.

“Thank you,” murmured Remus, “I’ll owe you…”

Severus framed the shot perfectly, the tousled head emerging from the old blanket, and fired off a quick set. Remus’s eyes cracked open. 

“Did you take my photo again?” he asked, voice slurred. Whatever drug he had taken, it was quite a powerful sedative.

“Yes.”

“Why are the beautiful ones always arseholes…” muttered the figure in the blanket, and his eyes closed and body slumped. 

“What?” asked Severus, but Remus was no longer responsive. He attributed his last nonsensical murmuring to the drugs. Looking at Remus cramped in the chair, Severus wished he had a more comfortable place for him to rest, but Remus had chosen the chair for himself. He snapped off a few more frames before the lateness of the hour started to catch up with him as well. 

“Good night, Remus,” he said as he shut off the lights and headed back to his bedroom. He kissed his camera as he set it down. “Thank you.” 

* * * * *

Remus woke on the leather chair, his back and neck contorted in agony. He groaned, trying to orient himself, and then remembered. He was in his neighbor’s flat. His gorgeous, artist neighbor’s flat. Severus Snape’s flat. And he had passed out on painkillers. Shit. 

The entire episode in the middle of the night was like a bizarre, embarrassing dream in the sober light of the morning. He had been high on pain and then on Tizanidine, and from experience, he knew that he tended to talk too much and moan too loud during the worst episodes of his relapses. He thought he could remember everything he had said to Severus, but once the muscle relaxant kicked in…Fearing the worst, and not wanting to face Severus, Remus pulled himself up, noting in passing that his spasms had subsided in the night, and hurried out of the flat. 

Back in his own space, Remus stopped at one of his many bookshelves on the way to his room, and found Severus’s book amongst his large collection of art books. He tucked himself into bed and thumbed through the pages, reacquainting himself with Severus’s work. 

There were two themes that seemed to be of interest to Severus Snape, Remus decided: small, perfect details of city life, and unusual, imperfect men. All of his photos were of one or the other, or sometimes both. As these were two of Remus’s favorite things as well, he smiled.

Whatever their relationship would be as neighbors, Remus could not wait to see what Severus would do with New York. 

* * * * *

Severus slept late in the morning, and by the time he was up and making his first pot of tea, Remus, his blanket, and his keys were gone.

He spent the morning developing his rolls from the day before and making contact prints for all of his recent film. He was surprised on emerging from the dark room that the day was already well advanced. He spread out the contact sheets on his dining table and started to systematically go through the frames looking for good shots.

After an hour, he threw up his hands in frustration. He had taken exactly seven photos so far that he found worth a second look, and all seven were of Remus. It wasn’t that the hundreds of cityscapes were poor, it was that the photos of Remus were so much more alive, so much more captivating. He had squinted with one magnified eye for a full ten minutes at one of the shots he had stolen of Remus at his door, and was still seeing new little details that intrigued him: the clench of his hand on the doorframe, the little crease between his brows, the hang of his half-zipped sweatshirt, the gray in his eyebrows, the hollow look in his eyes. Bare trees growing from cracking pavement were lovely, but really, they could not compete with this face, this body, this man.

Severus realized he had no choice. The muse was insisting on his neighbor, so his neighbor it would have to be. He knew better than to argue with the muse. Somehow, he was going to have to make an entire show out of photos of a stranger who had said in no uncertain terms that the he did not like being photographed. 

Severus smiled. He loved a challenge. 

* * * * *

Severus returned from a long walk through Central Park. He had needed the time to think and plan how to convince Remus to be his subject. Now that he had chosen Remus, the park was dull background to the images of forming in his mind. In the park, he imagined Remus, back turned, walking away beneath the trees. On the underground (no, subway) he pictured Remus sitting in an empty subway car, staring out the window at the blackness with his blank calm. Remus was all he could think of as he strode up the stairs to his flat.

Taped to his door was a sheet of folded paper that said, “Warning: Amateur Rubbish” on the outside. Heart accelerating, he pulled the paper down and opened it to read the note inside. It was a short poem.

_How to thank a stranger,  
(He wonders)  
Who might not want to be thanked?  
Do you thank him for his tea service? His calm?  
His accent? His uncomfortable furniture?  
Do you thank him for not asking  
“How are you, really?”  
With aggressive sympathy,   
For not crooning,   
“You’ll feel better soon,”  
That insidious lie?  
Do you thank him for his shoulder to lean on  
When a shoulder was all that was needed?_

_How to thank a stranger with a  
Poem  
(He wonders)  
When you know he   
Hates poetry? _

Severus read the poem several times standing in the hall, and looked down at door 3C thoughtfully before unlocking his door and going inside. Without taking off his coat or scarf, he sat down in the black chair, put his feet up and read the poem several more times. 

It was crap, but it was crap for him. Remus had written a poem for him. About him. 

The muse had never done this before.

Without hesitation, Severus stood up, strode across the flat, out the door, and down the hall. He rapped on Remus’s door until he heard a deep voice say, “Coming, coming,” and the locks being pulled back. Remus was dressed in his gray sweats again. He looked much better. His face was softer and less furrowed.

“Severus,” he said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Severus held up the paper. “Is this from you?”

“Oh.” Remus’s face turned bright red. “Just a scribble. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated the other night. I was in sad shape. Sorry if it seems forward.”

“No need to apologize,” said Severus.

“Oh. Sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t,” said Remus. Severus wondered if he intended the irony. 

“I don’t hate poetry. Entirely,” Severus said. 

“Ah,” said Remus. “Good.” They stood in the doorway facing each other for a quiet moment.

“You appear to be improving,” Severus said.

“Yes. I’m still quite stiff and achy, but that comes with the territory,” said Remus. “Would you like to come in?” Severus was taken aback but nodded acceptance. Remus ushered him into his flat, or, more accurately, into his library. Books were stacked on the floor, on every horizontal surface, anywhere there wasn’t a dying plant, dirty mug, or empty soda can. 

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess, I haven’t been cleaning much the past week,” said Remus. He pulled a knit afghan off the sofa and folded it in order to make room for Severus to sit. Severus noticed the bottles of prescription medications scattered amongst the notebooks and glasses on the table. 

“Would you care for some tea? I owe you a cup, at least,” said Remus, walking to his little kitchen without waiting for Severus’s reply. He had a rather uneven gait, not a limp, but a sway, Severus noticed, watching Remus walk away. Severus settled on the sofa. His eyes wandered the shelves of books, spotting many of his favorites amongst the mess.

“Do you like the poem?” Remus called from the safe distance of the kitchen.

_I adore the poem_ , realized Severus, but he said, “That is a dangerous question. What if I said no?”

“I’d want to know,” replied Remus.

“No one has ever written a poem for me before,” said Severus. 

“Well, that you know of,” said Remus with a smile, appearing in the doorway carrying two steaming mugs.

“True,” said Severus, sipping his tea. Perfectly brewed Darjeeling. Remus pushed a pile of books off of a tattered easy chair and took a seat. 

There was a quiet pause as they drank their tea. Severus felt the words build in him until they broke through to the surface.

“I’d like to photograph you,” he said.

Remus looked at him with his brows raised, his mouth full of tea. He took a moment and then swallowed. “What?” he choked.

Severus thought fast. “I’m shooting a series of portraits of people in this neighborhood, for my show. I want to include you.” Perhaps he would find some other neighbors to shoot by January, Severus justified as he heard the lie come out of his mouth.

“Why?”

“You interest me. Visually.”

Remus’s face turned a shocking red.

“Don’t you already have pictures of me?” asked Remus.

“Only a few. I’d prefer to work with you to create more that I can choose from,” Severus continued. 

“I become very self-conscious in front of a camera, Severus. I really don’t think it would be worth your time,” said Remus, running his hands through his hair. 

“I am a professional. It will be worth my time.”

Remus sat back and looked intently at Severus, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. At last, he sighed. “What would I have to do?”

Sensing victory, Severus took a deep breath. “I’ve found my best work comes from spending time with my subject as they go about their normal life. Would that be acceptable?”

“You would follow me around for a day?”

“No, more likely we would develop a schedule of times to meet and you can take me to some of your regular activities. You will be in control of what I see.” 

Remus sat back with his tea and sipped, his eyes in shadow. After a long silence, during which Severus had decided twice that he had played this all wrong, Remus leaned up, his elbows on his knees.

“Do you swim?” he asked.

“Why?” replied Severus, sitting up as well.

“I will be on the 6:43 bus to the YMCA for a swim tomorrow morning, if you would like to come,” he said. 

Severus let his face relax into a near smile. “That would be ideal,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Remus was awake most of the night, anticipation and fear coloring his dreams, lingering pain doing the rest, and he finally decided to get out of bed at 5:30 and take a long, hot shower. Severus had been very specific that he should not do anything unusual to look special before being photographed, but he couldn’t imagine Severus didn’t want him to shower and shave (both his face, and other strategic hairy areas) and spend thirty minutes fretting at the mirror over his wrinkles, and his bony shoulders, and the gray peppered throughout his mousy hair.

As his watch turned to 6:30, wrapped in his layers of sweats, carrying his bag, and with his headphones slung around his neck, Remus knocked at the door of apartment 3D. It swung open immediately. _He was waiting for me_ , Remus thought, with a little happy twist in his gut. 

Severus had on his black jeans again, but instead of the dramatic wool coat, he was wearing a thick, dark gray, hooded sweatshirt, his green scarf, and a cozy looking black knitted hat with ear flaps. His camera bag was slung across his chest. He looked, Remus realized, like a New Yorker. His heart accelerated and he felt a sappy smile affix itself to his face, so he looked down at his own feet hoping Severus would not notice. 

“Morning,” said Severus, pulling the door closed behind him and turning his key in the lock.

“Good morning,” replied Remus. 

They walked in silence to the street. Remus’s regular companions at the bus stop were there. He never spoke to any of them, except for the exchange of terse head nods before beginning the daily round of actively ignoring each other. As the routine was repeated, Remus noticed that Severus had pulled his camera out of his bag and was hanging it over his chest. 

“Already?” asked Remus in a whisper.

“Just in case,” said Severus, slyly adjusting shutter speed and focus before pulling the camera up and snapping off a few shots of the crowd waiting for the bus. A woman in her business suit and walking shoes sneered at them both, and then looked away. Remus raised an eyebrow at Severus, who was looking down the street with cool innocence, as if he had not just snapped off several photos of these strangers.

Remus stared straight ahead and tried to control his heart rate. He wasn’t sure it was possible to be any more fascinated with a person than he was with Severus Snape. 

* * * * *

The pool was filled with serious lap swimmers at this hour, and Remus went about his business like any other day, just the way Severus had asked. As soon as they entered the pool area, Severus drifted away into the metal bleachers by the poolside without a word, and Remus headed to the locker room to change. He strategically avoided looking up at the bleachers as he swam his laps, focusing instead on his form, counting each stroke. He was self-conscious to the extreme, but he realized that meant he was swimming stronger and harder than he ever had. He lapped the woman he usually paced with twice. 

As he pulled himself out of the water, Remus did his best to avoid looking up. He did not want to see the lens capturing him, or the intense, analytical stare of his neighbor at his many flaws. He hurried to the showers, shivering, although he wasn’t cold.

* * * * *

Severus was not sure what he had expected at the pool, but he certainly did not expect that the sight of Remus’s lean, uneven body would cause him to lose his grip on his camera and almost drop it to the concrete. Luckily he caught it as it slipped away and managed to salvage his pride and his equipment, all without drawing attention to himself. He was certain that taking photographs during lap swimming at this facility would be frowned upon, but he was nothing if not sly, and knew how to time his shots and hide his camera when under surveillance. 

He was able to calm his traitorous and distracting brain long enough to capture what he thought would be an interesting collection of shots as Remus moved through the water, his long arms arcing through the humid, chlorine-saturated air. The visual highlight was certainly when Remus hauled himself out of the pool, favoring his left arm and twisting awkwardly, his body in obvious rebellion. Severus managed to fire off at least twenty shots during that short maneuver, trying not to dwell on the cascade of water down Remus’s shoulders or the way his wet hair stuck to his cheeks in alluring strands. He refused to allow his gaze to drift below Remus’s collarbones, which took every ounce of his usually strict self-control. He would be able to dwell on those details when he printed this film. 

Pleased, Severus tucked his camera back in the bag and strode outside to wait for Remus.

* * * * *

Their second meeting was scheduled for the following Friday night.   
“I like to treat myself to dinner at this little dive down in SoHo sometimes on a Friday night. I write there. You could come along and get some photos there,” Remus had suggested in his most casual of voices. They had been on the bus returning from the pool, thigh-to-thigh in a cramped seat. “Good food, cheap, and a pleasant atmosphere.”

“What time?” Severus had responded.

Promptly at seven, Severus had knocked at his door. Peering out the peephole, Remus noted that Severus was wearing his dramatic black again. Remus had to exhale and roll his shoulders a few times to break the nervous tension tightening his body, before opening the door.

In the taxi, Severus was quiet. Finally he said, “There is a gallery opening tonight, close to this restaurant, that I should attend.”

“Oh,” said Remus in confusion. “Do you need to cancel dinner then?”

“No.”

“Do you want to go to the gallery later?” asked Remus.

“Not particularly,” said Severus, dragging a finger along the glass of the taxi window. “Unless you would not mind being photographed there.”

Remus had already suffered through being photographed on the street corner and in the taxi, but he didn’t mind the idea of prolonging their evening together. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing some new art,” he replied. 

“Then we shall go there after our meal,” said Severus.

An awkward silence fell then and stuck until they arrived in front of the little Italian hole-in-the-wall that Remus frequented. Remus heard the now familiar click of the shutter as he stepped out of the taxi and walked towards the door.

“My walking from a taxi cannot possibly be interesting enough to photograph,” said Remus with his brow raised, as he held the door open for Severus.

“You’d be surprised,” Severus replied as he brushed by Remus. Their hands touched as he moved past, and Remus pulled away at the sensation. “Sometimes the simplest moments produce the best art.”

Remus understood this. He would be writing about this moment himself, after all.

* * * * *

The dark atmosphere of the restaurant, lit only by dim lamps and candles, was tricky for Severus to shoot in, but he tried. After a few attempts across the table, he placed the camera under his chair and focused on the dinner instead. Remus had ordered a bottle of Chianti and had his poetry notebook spread out in front of him. The owner of the place obviously knew Remus as a regular, and brought them a plate of bruschetta on the house.

“There you have it. This is a typical Friday evening for me,” he said.

“Do you come here alone?” asked Severus.

“Usually,” said Remus, and Severus noted that Remus would not meet his eyes at this admission. “My illness…well, I don’t get involved with people very easily, even friends. I enjoy being alone.”

“Ah.” Why that was disappointing to Severus, he could not say.

“That didn’t sound right,” Remus corrected. “My MS is easy to treat and rarely interferes with my life, but I still am a bit more, well, tentative about relationships because of it. It is a burden for my friends as well as for me, so I try to be careful about bringing anyone else too close. Not that I don’t want to.”

“Ah.” Severus was not sure what to say, but he found himself breathing a bit easier.

“Sorry if that was too much personal information,” said Remus, rolling his wine glass between his fingers in a slow crawl. Severus’s eyes were drawn to the movement.

“Don’t apologize,” said Severus. “I have few friends myself. Too much of a bother, really.”

“We seem to have some things in common, Mr. Snape,” said Remus, holding up his glass in a toast, a grim smile on his lips.

“Indeed,” Severus raised his glass as well and drank. “When were you diagnosed?”

“A long time ago,” said Remus, taking a sip. “Are you really interested?”

“Yes,” said Severus, leaning back and folding his arms. It was helpful to know this sort of detail in his subjects, he thought. 

“I’ll have my ten year anniversary soon. I’m thinking of hosting a party for my lesions and their ten years of fucking with my body. I’ll be sure to invite you,” said Remus.

“You have a sense of humour about it I see,” said Severus.

“Might as well,” replied Remus. “It is a part of me that is not going away, will never leave me.” His voice hardened. “I am my disease. It is me.”

There was a stern resolve in Remus’s eyes when he talked about his illness. It was deep and hard and spoke of something inside him that was more than this friendly, nice man chatting over his appetizers. Looking at him in this brief moment, in the candlelight, Severus thought to himself, for the first time, _I like this man_. He warmed at the thought. 

As a cover for this reaction, Severus said, in a dry tone, “I wouldn’t know what to bring to a celebration in honour of lesions.”

“Painkillers, a masseuse, and lots of patience,” Remus replied, and the hardness was hidden away, replaced with a devious twinkle.

“Hmmm, that sounds like quite a party,” said Severus. 

Even the dim lighting could not hide Remus’s blush. Severus hoped it was hiding his own flushed chest and neck. The wine was going straight to his head, and every tilt of Remus’s head and twitch of his imperfect face had him fascinated.

“Well then, what about you?” asked Remus over the bread-basket, pouring himself another glass of wine. “How is it that an interesting person such as yourself is living alone?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I am single?” 

Remus swallowed. “Are you?” 

“For some time. In a way,” Severus took a sip of wine and a deep breath. “It is complicated.”

Remus smiled. “Sounds it.”

Severus sighed. “I was involved with someone for many years, but it is over now,” said Severus. He couldn’t remember saying it in such clear terms before, even to himself. He felt his face warm wondering why Remus wanted to know. _Stop that._

“Was it a difficult break-up?” asked Remus.

Severus paused, assessing how much he wanted to confide in Remus. “He was my most important art patron. He funded almost all of my work for the past five years, and he…” _expected my devotion in return, held me down to be sure I belonged only to him, considered me his pet, treated me like an inferior for being poor_ , “… was a difficult man.” 

“I’ll assume that is a resounding yes, then,” said Remus.

“Yes,” Severus confirmed.

Remus lifted his glass. “To the strength it must have taken you to leave a difficult man, and his money,” he said. Severus blinked at the bold intimacy of Remus’s toast. He did not ask how Remus guessed that he had left Luke, rather than the other way around, but he was correct. Remus seemed to have a sixth sense for what Severus wanted to hear. He raised his glass in return, and drank deep.

* * * * *

Remus wanted to jump out of his chair and do a jig around the restaurant when Severus confirmed what he had suspected and hoped. He was gay. His last relationship had been with a man. Maybe, just maybe, this might be a date, and maybe, just maybe, there was hope for Remus’s sorry romantic soul. 

His stupid brain allowed the celebration to last a short moment before it started in on the counter arguments: _He’s just out of a relationship, he’s your neighbor, he is only here to use you as an inexpensive model for his work. He is only here to use you, Remus. Don’t forget that._ He shoved those thoughts down, smiled, and turned his attention to his pasta.

* * * * *

Walking the few blocks to the gallery, Severus replayed the evening with his neighbor so far. The dinner had been pleasant, and far more comfortable than Severus had expected, considering Remus’s qualms about being photographed. He had captured several interesting images during their dessert. The food had been simple and comforting. The bottle of wine had soothed his own nerves, and also made him rather too aware of Remus’s warm body walking in his swaying gait next to him down the cold pavement.

He was not ready to feel anything like this again. The scars Luke had left, though invisible (well, most of them), were still raw. But he liked the way Remus made him feel: interesting, significant, in charge. He had not felt this way for a long time with another person. Maybe never.

He was supposed to be taking pictures, but found himself distracted by the presence of this man.

The Potter-Malfoy Gallery was open late for the opening party. Crisp light reflected off the walls and spilled into the street through the large windows. The gallery was only four blocks from the restaurant, but Severus was deeply chilled by the time they arrived. Winter was upon them. 

Remus pushed open the door and held it for Severus. This time, brazen from the wine, Severus brushed his entire body across Remus’s as he passed. Remus did not pull away. Severus continued into the room as if nothing had happened, his body buzzing.

The gallery was lively with conversation, and a jazz trio was playing in the far corner. Severus had walked only a few feet into the large room before a glass of champagne was handed to him by a caterer. He looked around for Remus, who was standing slightly behind him and to the side, almost as if using him as a shield from the crowd.

“Did you get champagne?” asked Severus in loud voice, so that Remus could hear.

Remus held up a glass. 

“Good,” said Severus.

Enormous canvases of brightly colored flowers dominated the walls of the gallery, blinding Severus in bad taste, but also convincing him that he was correct about printing a few large pieces for this space. The two men strolled through the crowd, looking at the paintings one at a time, in silence, sipping their champagne. Severus led the way, ignoring Remus, but aware of his constant presence at his elbow. 

After they had made a full circuit of the room, Severus led them to a more secluded corner near the office and turned to Remus, swaying slightly. “What do you think?” he asked. Remus was suddenly just a bit too close.

“What?” said Remus. It was noisy in the gallery. Severus leaned closer, and Remus’s face was only inches away. Severus could smell his sweat, his aftershave, the alcohol on his breath, him. He breathed him in. 

“What do you think of the paintings?” he repeated.

Remus eyes fixed on him. “A bit gaudy,” Remus replied in a low voice.

Severus gazed at his neighbor. “Not a fan of enormous, florescent flowers?”

“Apparently not,” said Remus. Somehow he was just a bit closer to Severus with every word. 

“Me neither,” Severus breathed. 

Remus moved in, his mouth inches from Severus’s ear. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking my photograph?” he whispered. His breath sent shivers along Severus’s spine. Remus pulled away, but not far enough, not out of reach. The alcohol had loosened his reserve, and Severus felt himself lean in towards those soft, thick lips… 

“Severus Snape! You came. You liar! I thought you hated these things.” A blaring, nasal voice broke the spell and Severus almost fell into Remus as he turned to see who was yelling at him. Remus caught his arm and righted him. A small blonde man was swaggering towards them. Draco Malfoy. 

“Hello, Draco. Yes, I came, Severus said quickly, hoping his flushed cheeks and rapid breathing were not too obvious. Daring a quick glance at Remus, Severus was impressed with his cool, steady calm.

“Who is this?” asked Draco, eyeing Remus with a wink.

“This? This is Remus…” said Severus, still shaken, and horrified to realize he did not know his surname. “My…neighbor.”

“Remus Lupin,” said Remus. At that moment, Severus realized that the hand Remus had used to catch him was still resting on his arm, and the warmth of his touch was spreading into Severus’s chest.

“We throw quite a party, don’t we?” said Draco, indicating the tipsy and cheerful clientele.

“Very successful, yes,” replied Remus. 

“We’ll do this for you too, you know, Severus. Lucky bastard. And we’ll sell out your work even faster,” said Draco. 

“Is Mr. Potter here this evening?” asked Severus, gaining control of himself.

“Oh yes, he is off with the media. That is his thing, you know,” said Draco with a dismissive wave of his hand towards Harry, who was across the room and deep in conversation. “What do you think of the paintings?” asked Draco. Severus felt Remus’s fingers tighten on his arm.

“They are…vivid,” said Severus.

“Oh, you hate them, just admit it,” said Draco with a grin, and Severus gave a curt nod of assent. “I love it! No one is ever honest about their opinions to my face, even in New York.” He nudged Remus with his elbow. “You are a lucky ‘neighbor,’ Mr. Lupin. This man is perfection.” At the word ‘neighbor,’ Draco produced another showy wink.

Severus could not look at Remus. He focused his attention on the top of Draco’s head, hoping his face was not telegraphing his embarrassment.

“Well, I have to circulate, but Severus, I’ll see you at our meeting next week,” said Draco. “You can tell me what you liked and despised at this party, so that we can make yours perfect.” 

“I cannot wait,” said Severus, his throat tight.

Draco turned, flourishing his hands, and walked off into the crowd, waving farewell over his shoulder. Remus’s hand on Severus’s arm slid down to the small of his back as he leaned in to Severus’s ear again. Severus’s stomach clenched. 

“He is quite a character,” Remus said.

“Quite,” replied Severus. _With abysmal timing._

* * * * *

 _He was going to kiss me, he was going to kiss me._ The thought would not stop replaying through Remus’s head as he tried to fake interest in the blatherings of the little blonde man talking to them. _Fuck. What do I do? He was going to kiss me._ He panicked.

“I think I am ready to get home,” whispered Remus, but he could not convince his hand to leave Severus’s back. “Are you going to take any pictures of me?”

Severus took a deep breath. He spun towards Remus, met his eyes, cupped his hands around Remus’s warm, smooth cheeks, and said, “Yes. Many.” He strode away from him and towards the door without looking back.

Remus was left in the corner, slightly dizzy at the unexpected forwardness of Severus’s actions. He had two choices, he decided. He could pretend he was not attracted to Severus, keep his distance as the night concluded, and politely walk into his own apartment, or he could walk out the door, stride up to Severus, and kiss him, now. He shook his head and pulled his thin collar up against the cold. _Idiot_ , he thought. 

As he left the gallery and saw Severus’s dark form standing at the curb, he realized there was a third option. He could show vague interest, and see what Severus would do in response. 

Remus slid up behind Severus and returned his hand on the small of his back. He would take option three. Severus did not react to his hand, but stood still and did not move away.

Once they were in a cab, they did not speak, just looked out their individual windows until they arrived at their block, the air heavy with potential. Severus stayed behind to pay the driver as Remus pulled himself out of the cab and unlocked the door to the building, still uncertain about what was coming next. 

For the third time that night, Remus held a door open for Severus. This time, however, they were alone, and they were both drunk. As he strode past, Severus grabbed Remus’s shoulder and pulled him into the foyer, letting the door slam shut behind them. He pushed Remus against the wall, pressed into him, and grabbed at the back of his neck. There was a small pause, their eyes met, inches apart, and then Severus leaned in and claimed Remus’s lips in a long, slow kiss.

His kisses went straight through Remus’s body to the very tips of his toes. Pressed back into the cold metal of the mailboxes, Remus was trying, with every ounce of self-control he had, to stay calm, to stay focused on the moment, to not let himself think too hard. If he let his mind wander, for one moment, to _You are kissing Severus Snape_ , he would be lost. Especially if that thought was followed with, _he will regret this in the morning, he is drunk, you were not even on a date, or he only likes you because he wants you in his show._

Severus’s cool hands were creeping up under Remus’s shirt, and the contact with his skin sent a jolt of arousal through his body. Remus pulled away, bringing his hands up to Severus’s cheeks to hold him at bay for a moment.

“I thought you wanted more pictures? Isn’t that why you want to spend time with me?” he asked. 

Without a reply, Severus kissed him again, but his hand reached into the camera bag at his side. Without breaking their kiss, Severus pulled the camera from the bag, pointed it at the two of them, and fired off several shots. 

“Those cannot be in focus,” murmured Remus into Severus’s lips.

“True.” Severus broke off the kiss, and Remus nuzzled at the soft skin of his neck while he adjusted the shutter and focus. Severus stepped back, and Remus ducked his head, feeling suddenly exposed in front of the lens, and smiled towards the floor as Severus fired off several frames. Then Severus stepped back in, nestling his leg between Remus’s thighs, and kissed him once more, lips soft but demanding.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“I didn’t expect this,” said Remus between kisses. 

“This was not my intention when we set out this evening,” said Severus.

“You only wanted to photograph me,” said Remus, breathless.

“I still do. I have an interesting series in mind. In my flat. Shall we?” 

Severus’s possessive gaze burned into Remus, far more invasive than the prying lens he had just faced. Severus’s fingers trailed along just inside the waistline of Remus’s jeans, along the ticklish skin of his belly, and then moved towards the buttons, popping the first one open. Remus froze. 

This was the moment, Remus knew, when he was supposed to say a breathy _Yes_ , and let the alcohol and confused motives and insecurity melt away, and give in to this Really Bad Idea. He wished, for a second, that he had accepted one more glass of champagne at the gallery, so that his brain would let go and allow him to make this colossal mistake. But he had not had that last drink, and this forceful man in front of him had admitted earlier to being on the rebound, and Remus liked him far too much to risk embarrassment, and besides, he was not going to let himself be a one-off for some lonely artist just because he was flattered by his attention. No.

He tensed his entire body and firmly shoved his way out of Severus’s grasp. Severus moved back, puzzled and still aroused, lips parted in anticipation of a kiss that did not come. 

“No. Not tonight,” Remus sputtered. “I’ve…I have to go…sorry, thanks for a lovely evening.” Feeling panic start to cramp his legs, Remus made a break for it up the stairs. He couldn’t look back. 

“Wait…what the hell…” he heard Severus call out as he swung around the first landing and out of his sight. 

* * * * *

Severus woke up with a massive hangover and a vague sense of misgiving. What had happened? 

Remus had turned him down. 

He recalled being at one minute pissed as a newt and assured of a good shag, and the next stranded by the mailboxes and happened upon by the young couple from 2B. They had given him quite a nasty glare, which he had returned with vigor and a two-fingered salute. The rest was foggy, except he remembered staggering into his apartment and collapsing, fully dressed, onto his bed, where he now found himself. With a groan, he rolled over and felt for his head. It was still there. He stumbled to the kitchen to get a large glass of water and an aspirin. Once he was hydrated, he would mix up his hangover cure, a combination of fruit juices and Worcestershire sauce that he had perfected at art school, when it had been a necessary means of survival.

All this was beside the point, however, he thought, as he flopped down on the sofa with his water. 

Remus had turned him down.

Well, of course he had. 

He was a sour, ugly, bitter man. The only person who ever really found Severus tolerable had been Luke, and Luke had only loved him for his talent, and the money he could earn from his work. Leaving Luke had been a relief, like pulling up anchor from a rocky harbor, but rather than heading out into smooth seas, he had steered himself right into a coral reef. 

He was not attractive. He was not a catch. No one else but Luke would ever love him. Luke had said those words a thousand times during their break-up, so much so that Severus had actually started to doubt whether Luke was correct. He had grabbed the next fellowship out of London. But Luke had been right, once again, and Severus bit the inside of his lip raw for even daring to think that he might be better than that. 

Remus Lupin had a lined face, and graying hair, and twisted, hunched shoulders, a crap job, and a painful, progressive disease, and even he had turned Severus down. Severus, feeling so full of himself after leaving Luke, had been stupid enough to believe for a minute that Remus might actually like him. Shit.

And now what was he going to do about his show? 

Severus pulled a sofa cushion over his head and closed his eyes. 

* * * * *

Remus went about his daily life- he worked several double shifts at the bodega, wrote in his spare moments, swam at the YMCA- but for the next week he thought of almost nothing but Severus Snape. 

They did not cross paths, but Remus suspected that Severus was listening for him to leave his apartment before he would emerge. One day when he had forgotten his warm hat and had to return to his apartment after only being gone a few moments, he was sure he heard Severus’s door slam shut as he came back around the corner.

He was not sorry he had stopped them from going back to Severus’s apartment that night, although a little part of him ached to know what would have happened if he had given in and followed Severus upstairs. He had certainly fantasized several acceptable results in the semi-privacy of his own bedroom the last few nights, keeping his moaning to a minimum. Knowing Severus was only on the other side of their thin wall made the fantasies even more potent. 

Now the trick would be convincing Severus to speak to him again.

Remus fell back on his best means of expressing himself. He pulled out his notebook and started to write.

* * * * *

After a week spent shut in his dark room, skulking around the building, and shopping at the bodega seven blocks away, Severus returned to his apartment one afternoon to find a small envelope taped to his door. His heart rate accelerated as he read the short message inside. 

_Haiku for SS_

_misunderstandings  
grow if ignored, and perish  
in the light of truth_

_Let’s talk. RL_

Severus studied the poem all evening, analyzing the word choice, trying to guess at what Remus wanted to speak to him about. What misunderstandings could they have? Severus had offered himself to Remus, and Remus had said no. It was all very clear. Unless…? 

He pulled out the growing stack of photos he had printed of Remus. His favorite so far was of the moment just before things had fallen apart that night. Severus did not remember doing it, but he must have snapped off a few shots of Remus just after they had kissed and before Remus had run off. In this particular shot, Remus’s eyes were downcast and coy, but his face was joyful, almost like a small boy with a stack of birthday gifts before him. His lips were swollen and soft, and entire picture screamed of someone who was in the midst of getting exactly what they wanted. 

He placed the poem next to the photo and stared at them both with a tiny glimmer of hope. He would not assume anything, Severus told himself in a stern tone, but if Remus had rejected him, why did he want to talk? Severus thought all evening, and long into the night, with the photo of Remus, giddy from kisses, and the poem as his only company.

* * * * *

The firm knock at the door interrupted Remus’s reading, but he turned his book on to the coffee table to save his place, stretched, and walked to the door. His morning shift at the bodega was over and he was tired.

Peering through the peephole, Remus’s heart began to thump. It was Severus. He opened the door.

“I want to speak to you,” said Severus without preamble.

“Hello. I’m glad to see you,” said Remus, but Severus brushed past him into the apartment. He perched on the edge of the sofa and folded his arms, looking back at Remus. The intense stare hit Remus with a wave of longing, but he took a seat on the sofa a body’s width away from Severus. “Is everything all right? I was going to stop by tonight if I didn’t see you today,” Remus said.

Severus’s jaw was clenched. “I’ve considered this, and I’ve done some research, and I understand that this is a common problem for men with MS. I was reading about your leg spasticity and your pain symptoms, and noticed on the website some of the other symptoms of MS…”

“Severus, what are you talking about?” asked Remus, shaking his head with a smile.

“Your…issue,” he replied.

“What issue?”

“The other night. Your MS.”

“My MS?”

“Your MS. Isn’t that why? I’ve been thinking about it. Why else would you run off and still want to speak to me now?”

Remus took a moment and then he understood. “Severus, do you think I didn’t sleep with you the other night because I can’t? Because of the MS?”

“Well, it is a common problem for men with MS, and so I’ve been thinking we could…”

“Severus, stop. Stop.” Remus ran his hands through his graying hair. Severus was here. Remus wanted to leap at him for caring enough to do research, research, for God’s sake, but he tried to keep an even keel. He didn’t want to mess this up. “You are correct, many people with MS suffer sexual symptoms. Luckily for me, I am not one of those unfortunate blokes. At least, not so far.” He smiled at Severus and touched the back of his hand with his finger.

“You’re not,” Severus said, his face blank.

“No, I’m not. That all works perfectly well, thank you. I just didn’t…” Remus paused, and Severus pulled his hand away. 

“Ah,” said Severus, his expression slamming shut, “it is as I thought. You just didn’t want me.”

Remus grabbed his hand back. “No, listen, you maudlin git. I just didn’t want to rush things. You were drunk, I was drunk, we hadn’t thought any of it through. I didn’t want to make a mistake, and bollocks it all up with you. I thought we should take it slowly.” Remus rubbed the back of Severus’s thin hand with his rough thumb. “In case it is not painfully obvious, I really like you, Severus Snape, and I know I am not the easiest person to become involved with. I am pretty fucking high-maintenance.” 

Severus was pale and quiet and had cast his eyes to the floor during Remus’s little confession. At last he said, “I am not a maudlin git.” 

Remus grinned. “If you say so,” he replied, leaning down to try and catch Severus’s eye. 

Severus looked up and then abruptly leaned in to meet Remus’s lips with his own. The kiss, and the passion behind it, took Remus by surprise. He responded eagerly, tangling his other hand through Severus’s fine hair and pulling him close, opening his lips and flicking his tongue against Severus’s in tiny darts that tingled up his spine. 

“Don’t run away again,” said Severus.

“I won’t, but I need you to promise me something,” said Remus, leaning his forehead against Severus’s. He had thought about this all week.

“What?” 

“That whatever this is between us has to stay separate from my working with you,” said Remus. “I cannot just be your art.”

“Yes,” said Severus. He slid his hands under Remus’s shirt, and Remus gasped at the feel of those smooth hands on his skin. “Of course.” His mouth trailed along Remus’s throat.

“Really?” asked Remus, starting to unbutton Severus black shirt.

“Mmm-hmm,” Severus murmured into his skin. He leaned up and bit at Remus’s earlobe, hard. How he knew to do that, Remus could not say, but the jolt to his groin and his gut was too much, and he moaned.

“Shh, the neighbors will hear,” quipped Severus, raising an eyebrow.

“Get your clothes off. Now,” said Remus, shoving whatever doubt lingered out of his mind in the face of a man, this man, biting at his ear. He grabbed at Severus’s sweater.

“What about taking it slowly?” asked Severus, pulling back for a moment.

“Fuck it,” said Remus, pulling off his socks. “Fuck slowly.”

“I plan to,” replied Severus, and Remus’s laugh was intercepted by Severus’s probing lips and tongue.

* * * * *

Later, lost in sensation, Severus felt as if he was simultaneously floating and anchored to the earth. He had been controlled by Luke for so long, his body had forgotten the joy of losing control intentionally, and he let himself dissolve into the feeling. Remus’s body surrounding him, and in him, and holding him. Fingers, toes, skin, chests, cocks, sweat all tumbling and burning and thrusting and…

Remus’s elbow whacked him in the mouth, and the sharp pain pulled him back to himself, twisted up in the sheets and Remus’s limbs. 

Remus let out a sharp, barking laugh, “Shit, are you alright?” He rubbed his rough thumb gently along Severus’s mouth.

“No,” said Severus in a growl, rolling onto the laughing man next to him and smothering him with his wounded mouth. 

* * * * *

Later, panting and sticky and exhilarated, Remus found himself completely enveloped in Severus’s skin and hands and thighs, just lying still, feeling his heartbeat through his back, listening to him breathe. Pale afternoon light filtered in through his window, and gave the room a cool, blue glow. He didn’t want to move, or speak, or acknowledge that this moment would ever have to end.

But he needed a piss. 

He gently nudged at Severus’s arms, folded around his chest, and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

In a deep slur, Severus murmured a protest, but Remus wriggled free and dashed into the loo.

* * * * *

Alone in the bed, Severus rolled onto his back, stretching his long limbs in every direction, taking over every inch of the mattress. His entire body was relaxed, in a way he could not remember ever feeling before, and that he could only imagine he would never feel again. Nothing this good could possibly last, but he wanted to capture this moment, this feeling, somehow. 

Looking over at the nightstand, he was surprised to see that somehow in the tumble into the bedroom, he had brought along his camera bag and coat. 

He eyed the closed bathroom door as he pulled his camera from the bag and set it. Severus moved the camera so it was hidden in the folds of the bedclothes.

When Remus opened the door, Severus looked at him with a critical, a photographer’s eye, his lean and awkward body framed in the doorway. God, he was beautiful.

Remus walked back, a small smile playing around his lips, gaze fixed on Severus. From his reclined position, Severus followed him with eyes, wishing he could take a photo at each second, to catch each nuance of his expression, the subtle way his muscles moved under his skin, but he didn’t, he just watched. 

Remus sat down on the edge of the bed, one leg folded up in front of him and the other resting on the ground. He placed a hand on Severus’s leg, stretched under the sheet, and breathed in, his face calm, the blue light of the afternoon falling on the contours of his face, his chest, his legs. 

It happened more perfectly than Severus could have imagined. He eased the camera out from the sheets just as Remus cocked his head to the side and looked directly at him, eyes full of that heady resolve Severus had fallen into at the restaurant, that deep, hard passion. His finger pressed the shutter release and Severus knew. He had just taken a perfect photograph.

“What the hell are you doing, you sneak!” said Remus, pouncing on Severus and pulling the camera out of his hand with a laugh. “I’m starkers! None of that.”

“I’m a photographer, it’s what I do,” said Severus, still warmed by the exceptional image he had just captured.

“That’s all well and good, as long as you promise you’ll never share any of that sort of photo with anyone else. Ever.” He frowned at the camera as if it was a strange new person who had suddenly appeared in the bed with them. Remus placed it on the nightstand before he tucked himself back into the bed, stretching out next to Severus.

“It is four in the afternoon, are we going to spend the rest of the day in bed?” asked Severus as Remus settled in, his hands tracing Severus’s ribs.

Remus propped his head up on his hand and looked down at Severus. “No, no, no, you cannot avoid this one. I actually need you to promise, Severus, that you won’t display any photos of me that you take when we are like this. At least, I don’t want you to use them, except for yourself.” He grinned, but a seriousness remained in his voice. “Promise me.”

“Why?”

Remus paused a moment before he said, “My body has its problems, and I don’t care to share those…quirks…with the rest of the world.”

“That is ridiculous.” Severus twitched in Remus’s sincere stare. He knew the photo resting inside his camera was brilliant, and he didn’t want to keep it hidden. Sensing his hesitation, Remus cupped his hand around Severus’s balls and gave them a quick, threatening pinch. 

“Promise.” Remus’s teasing voice had a hard edge. “Promise and I won’t have to hurt you.” Then his voice softened to a purr. “Promise, and I might let you take more…”

“You are damn persistent, Mr. Lupin. Very well.” Severus took a deep breath. “I promise.”

Remus’s body relaxed and curved into Severus. “Good. And I do think we will be spending the rest of the day in bed, to answer your question.” 

Severus settled back into Remus’s embrace, peaceful and satisfied, but slightly chilled, because he knew. He had just told Remus a lie. 

* * * * *

They settled into a lovely and stimulating routine. Severus worked all the time. Remus was not sure what else Severus was shooting for the show, in addition to the seemingly endless interest he had in taking pictures of him, but he was certainly busy. He was either out and about or in his dark room, but was willing to schedule his work around Remus’s schedule at the bodega. They ate meals together and read together and fucked in every room of both of their flats. Remus was writing so much that he had to buy two new notebooks. He was inspired. His long planned series about the bodega was pouring out of his pen, and the endless details and feelings and sensations of life with Severus continued to generate an intense series of poems that he never tired of writing. 

Severus continued to schedule shoots days with him, once in a while. He sat behind the counter at the bodega for an entire shift, snapping shots of Remus at work. He was particularly fascinated with the images he could get in the convex security mirrors, reminding Remus of the first time he had seen Severus, shopping for fruit. After that memory stirred in him, Remus was thankful for the electronic door chime more than once. It gave them enough time to break apart and regain a touch of composure as customers entered. 

They spent a memorable hour in the shop that had been recommended to Severus, called Eyes on You, selecting frames for Severus’s glasses. After eliminating every pair with a sneer and sniping about his appearance and the horrors of staring the mirror for so long, Remus finally grabbed a pair of black, rectangular, wire-rimmed frames and said, “These.” When Severus tried them on, they were perfect. It was possible that Remus might have caught Severus grinning at himself in the mirror looking at the glasses, but he would never mention it to him. 

Remus was happy. He had not relapsed. He felt strong. He _might_ be falling in love.

He should have known something was wrong. 

* * * * *

It had been weeks since Severus had realized that his entire show was going to be Remus. 

He was awash with the man, body and soul, and nothing else was even interesting to him, photographically or otherwise. 

He had printed hundreds of photographs of the man. Swimming, eating, working, sleeping, in pain, in lust, naked, sweating, howling. He had blown-up a series of shots that isolated his favorite parts of Remus’s body: just his toes, curling in the carpet, just his smiling eyes, just his tensed and twisted back, just his locked knees, just the soft area of skin where his leg met his body and his hipbone made a perfect arcing ridge. He was captured, held, and illuminated in the photographs, and Severus was enthralled.

The problem was, he could not bring himself to tell Remus any of that.

It wasn’t Remus’s business, really. This was Severus’s work after all, he told himself. He couldn’t count the times Luke had taken his work and showed it, or sold it, or published it without his permission. It was what happened. The art world was hard, and cutthroat, and that was not Severus’s fault. 

When he printed the photo, The Photo, the perfect piece, his Remus, fucked and glowing and passionate, he knew what he had to do. It was the best shot he had ever taken of another person. He had to show it. He had to. I would be wrong not to…

It sounded hollow, even to him, but he took it to Draco anyway, eager for a second opinion.

* * * * *

“You are so secretive about your work, Severus,” said Remus one morning, as they were curled up in Severus’s bed. “I have not seen a single finished photograph for the show.”

“I prefer my show to be the first time the work is seen, if possible. I select it all as a collection of work, and the overall effect is what is important.” This was bullshit, Severus knew. He would enjoy sharing his process with Remus, except for the gnawing fear of what he would think about his featured role.

“Well, shouldn’t I be an exception?” asked Remus, his long legs twining up and around Severus’s hips. “After all, one of the photos will be of me. Shouldn’t I have chance to approve it or some such thing?” 

“Do you want to approve photos of you that I select?” asked Severus, holding his breath and looking out the window with studied nonchalance. What would he do if Remus said yes?

Remus thought for a moment and then kissed Severus softly. “No, I trust you.”

 _Shit. He does_ , Severus realized. 

* * * * *

Remus had carefully copied out all of the poems about Severus by hand, and had collected them in a small booklet for him. The show was opening in a week and Severus had disappeared into labs and the dark room and the gallery, so that Remus was obliged to seek him out and force him to eat, and sleep, and fuck. Well, eat and sleep. He was perfectly willing to fuck. 

He wanted to deliver the poems to Severus now. He was ready for him to read what he had to say.

Whistling to himself, Remus pushed open the gallery door. 

The gallery was draped with drop cloths, and paint cans were scattered about. A blonde figure was stacking the last of the gaudy flower paintings in the far corner. It was the gallery owner, Draco, Remus recalled, who lifted his head at the sound of the door and strutted over towards him. 

“Ah, look who we have here!” Draco drawled as he approached. “The muse!” 

Remus smiled, and shook his head. “Hello, again. I’m looking for Severus. Is he here?” 

Draco shook his head. “Nah, sorry dear.”

Remus paused and cocked his head at Draco. “The muse? What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve seen so much of you recently that we may need to consider a commitment ceremony, you and me,” Draco continued with a snort. “Harry, come see who is here!” he shouted towards the open office door in the back.

“Sorry, you may have me confused with someone else. I’ve only met you once, with Severus Snape. It was over a month ago.” Remus smiled again. 

“Oh no, darling, I know who you are.” Draco winked. “The posters and postcards came back from the printer today, so you have been omnipresent in our little world all afternoon.” Remus tried to understand what Draco was chattering about, but it still made no sense. “Have you seen it yet? Did he show you?”

Trepidation started its slow crawl in Remus’s belly. He shook his head. “Show me what?”

“That miserable old queen. Here, you have to see it. Harry, bring out a copy of the poster!” Draco continued. “It is fucking fabulous.”

The other gallery owner, the one with the glasses, Harry, Remus supposed, stuck his head out of the office and smiled broadly. “Oh hello, there. Here, I’ll grab one, hold on a moment,” he said.

“You’ll love it, darling. Everyone will,” said Draco. “We had so many fantastic shots of you to choose from, but…well, you’ll see. Severus is going to have quite a hit on his hands.”

The clenching in his gut increased as Remus watched Harry emerge from the office with a full-sized poster, the front hidden from his view. He flipped it around for Remus to see as Draco uttered a cheery, “Ta-da!” 

Remus couldn’t breathe. Draco’s voice was drowned out by a sudden and blaring ringing in his ears. He could only stare in shock at the image before him, slowly descending into hell.

“… but somehow it is poignant, intense, intimate and hot hot hot at the same time.” Draco’s chatter broke through at last. “You know, Mr. Lupin, if I wasn’t a happily married man myself…” Draco raised pale brows suggestively and Harry rolled his eyes at Remus. 

Remus couldn’t speak or move, the simmer in his gut rising to a boiling rage.

“He’s overwhelmed, Harry darling.” 

Remus cleared his throat. “I am,” he said carefully. “Do you mind…could I keep that one?”

“Of course, we have hundreds more,” said Draco. “They’ll be up all over the city.” 

Remus tried to fake a smile in order to say his farewells and escape from the gallery. Harry rolled up the poster and handed it to him. “I think it is Severus’s best work,” Harry said. “We have the front page of Arts and Leisure next week. Color spread.” 

“Ah,” Remus managed. It felt as if blood was pooling in his shoes. A leg spasm was threatening.

“Did you want to leave that here for Severus?” Draco asked, eyeing the envelope clearly marked ‘Severus’ in Remus’s hand.

“No, no,” Remus muttered, clutching the collection of poems to his chest. “I’ll…it’s not important. I’ll deliver it personally.” He turned and stumbled towards the door. 

“Are you okay, Mr. Lupin?” called Harry after him. 

Remus turned back. “Yes, just…yes…fine.” The door was heavy but he pulled it open just in time to see a taxi approaching. He hailed it and collapsed into the back seat, horrified, his legs aching, the evidence of Severus’s betrayal clutched in his shaking hands. 

* * * * *

Severus heard the pounding on his door but was mid-way through printing contact sheets in the dark room, and could not come out without ruining his work. 

“Come back,” he bellowed, hoping he could be heard. 

The pounding was repeated. 

“Later!” he shouted.

The pounding now sounded as if someone was kicking his door. What the hell? 

“One moment!” He could reprint this sheet he supposed, if it meant saving his door from being kicked in. He opened and shut the dark room as quickly as possible and strode to the front door, pulling his gloves off. 

Drawing back the deadbolt, he threw the door open.

“What?” he yelled before he realized it was Remus standing at the door. “Oh, sodding fuck, Remus, what the hell are you doing?” Severus turned away from the man at the door, expecting him to follow him inside. “I just ruined a set on contact sheets for you. Couldn’t you hear me?” Looking back, Severus realized that Remus was still standing in the doorway, frozen, staring at him with his cool, brutal resolve. 

“Remus?” Severus looked at him with curiosity. “Remus? What is wrong? What is it?” Severus strode back towards the door, fear constricting his chest. “Are you relapsing again? Are you in pain?” When he tried to grab Remus’s hand, Remus moved to avoid the touch and swayed dangerously into the room, his knees stiff. 

Without a word, Remus unfurled a large poster on Severus’s dining table and deliberately weighted it down with the camera equipment that was lying on the table so that it stayed flat. He moved a step back.

Severus stepped up next to him for a look. 

Time stopped. 

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “Fuck. Remus…”

“You said you wouldn’t. You promised me.” Remus voice was so quiet, Severus almost could not hear him.

“I was going to speak to you about it, before you saw. I have not even seen this yet. How do you have it?” Severus asked. 

Remus turned to look at Severus. “Is that really what you are asking me right now?”

“It is the best photograph I’ve even taken. The gallery wanted it to be the iconic image for the show. I said yes.” The terrifying resolve Severus so admired in Remus turned its fixed gaze on him. Severus felt the guilt that had been lying dormant, dammed in his brain, break free and flood his body. Unreasonable anger bubbled up in response. “Most people would be flattered, Lupin.”

“I asked you. You promised. This was our moment. It shouldn’t be shared. This was us.” The sadness in his voice was like a cruel dagger pressed under Severus’s ribs. 

“There isn’t anything shocking in view, only one side of your hip.” Severus felt the wrong words flow out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

The pain etched on Remus’s face now had a different edge, but was as hard to witness as his pain and suffering that first night, so long ago. His voice was almost a whisper. “I see now. I’m just a model to you. I’m just a subject for your art. I’m just a body, a visually interesting freak. What I want or care about is not of interest to you. I understand Severus. Now I understand.”

Severus was silent for a moment in the face of this chillingly subdued anger and pain. “Remus…” was all he managed. He’d had no idea.

“I even knew you’d done this before. I have your book. Who were those other men? Did you make them pretty promises too, and then humiliate them with your callous disregard once you had your perfect image? Your icon? I am such an idiot. Shit,” Remus ran his hands through his hair in slow agony. “Shit!” he said to himself, voice rising.

“You agreed, Lupin. You brought me into your life, your home, your bed, and you knew what you were letting yourself in for.” Severus stepped back, voice rising. He could not stop his own words, even as he cringed saying each one. Guilt and humiliation were overwhelming him. “Don’t try to play the martyr with me. You loved it all, the attention and the worship and the inspiration for your crap poetry.” 

Remus looked at Severus with empty calm. “I thought this would be hard, Severus. Thank you for making it so easy.” He leaned hard against the table, his legs giving out. Severus wanted to pull him up, and hold him close, rip the poster to shreds and promise him anything, if he would just not say what he was bound to say next, but Severus didn’t do any of those things. He stood still and watched it all fall to pieces. “I won’t stop you from using my image for your show, Severus, but I’m finished with you. Don’t try to see me, don’t talk about me, don’t even think about me.” 

Severus shut his eyes.

“I thought this was it, Severus, I really did. I thought I had finally found someone to trust, someone who understood me, all of me, even the shit parts. Well, I’ve been wrong before, and it’s obvious I’m wrong again.” Severus could sense that Remus had turned and was walking away, but he could not look.

“Curl up with your art and your grant and your prestige. That’s…fuck…never mind. You don’t deserve my explanations,” Remus said, and the door slammed shut.

Severus stood with his eyes closed for several minutes, letting his own appalling choices wash over him. When he opened his eyes, the perfect peaceful joy in Remus’s face flared up at him from the wrinkled poster. He might never see that again, except in this photo. 

No, Severus thought. No. This could not be the end. Remus was wrong. He was…he couldn’t…Severus felt…he’d never before…he was wrong…he was not wrong…he felt…

No.

Severus sat down on the hard floor of his flat and did not move again until well after dark


	3. Chapter 3

It had been over a week. Severus stormed through the days, preparing for the opening, repairing frames, finalizing the installation of the oversized prints, being interviewed for the feature article in the Times. He found no refuge in the mundane, ordinariness of his work, as every image in the show was a sharp reminder of what he had lost, of what he had done. His cold, angry outbursts during hanging became a daily routine. He troubled the Times reporter with a vitriolic rant about how modern art was meaningless. In the article she described his work with words like ‘passion’ and ‘intensity,’ emotions that he seemed to have forgotten how to feel. 

_“Snape’s new series is a love letter to his muse, an eruption of fiery longing, almost obsession, for the intimacies that make love grow,”_ said the Times. Draco was thrilled. Severus felt ill.

Remus was gone.

Severus had haunted the bodega, the hallway, the bus stop, but there had been no sign of him. He couldn’t sleep. He had even stooped to pressing his ear to the wall and listening for sounds in Remus’s bedroom, but it was very quiet, and he could not say with certainty if anyone was at home in 3C. 

In desperation, late one night, he threw his coat on over his night clothes and walked down to speak to Eduardo at the bodega. Eduardo explained that Remus had requested a bit of time off for personal reasons, and he did not know where he had gone. 

“Keep this, please,” said Severus, handing Eduardo an invitation to the gallery opening. “If Remus comes in, could you be sure he receives this card.”

“Okay, sure, man,” said Eduardo. 

“It is very important,” said Severus. He watched as Eduardo looked more closely at the postcard. 

“Hey, that’s Remus. His picture is on this postcard!” Eduardo exclaimed, as if Severus wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Yes. Please be sure that it gets to him, if you can,” Severus repeated.

On the back of the card, he had written, in a firm, dark pen: **I was wrong. Come to the show. S.**

“Sure, man,” said Eduardo. “I’ll try.”

 _That’s all any of us can do_ , thought Severus. _Try_.

* * * * *

The gallery was packed, and Draco’s nasal drawl could be heard above all of the chatter, welcoming each new visitor and pointing them towards the wine bar. A classical pianist was setting the mood in the corner (after a heated exchange during which Severus had declared ‘jazz is dead,’ Draco had agreed to compromise and hire the pianist), and the mood in the gallery was electric. The show was a hit.

Severus hovered like a black cloud in the far corner, as much as he was able. He was forced to join the party to accept the public congratulations of a Dean Thomas, whose artistically-minded family had established the Fellowship that paid for all of this work. Draco had also dragged him out to meet a few important collectors. One, a gray-haired, patrician Upper Eastsider named Minerva McSomethingorother, seemed impressed with Severus’s dour attitude and hurried off with Potter to finalize the purchase of two of the swimming prints. A flighty blonde who introduced herself only as ‘Luna’ had spent a good fifteen minutes bending Severus’s ear about how the shadows on Remus’s face in one of bodega prints were actually spelling out a message to her about passion, and that she intended to study it further after purchase. 

“Can’t you see it?” she asked him, pointing at Remus’s face in the photo, and the creases shadowed there. “It says Love. L-O-V-E. Right there on his face…” 

As she blathered on, across the crowded gallery Severus caught sight of a sleek blonde head towering above the crowd. The glimpse sent a shiver down his spine and he turned away, eyes darting for a place to hide. 

“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said to Luna, moving for the office door. It was too late, however, and a familiar and chilling, “Severus,” reached his ears. Slowly he turned back to the approaching man, spine like a steel rod.

“Luke,” he said, voice icy, “what are you doing here?” 

The tall man, his blonde cascade of hair attracting the eyes of each person he passed, glided, menacing and seductive, to Severus’s side. He leaned in. “I have never missed one of your openings, and I didn’t see any reason to start now.”

“How did you get here?” asked Severus. “Go home.” He kept his eyes down. His former patron and lover knew how to get at him, knew his weaknesses, and he was not about to let him in easily, regardless of how vulnerable he felt. 

“Oh, there is this marvellous invention, called an aeroplane, Severus. It flies through the air, all the way from London. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. You really should get out more,” replied Luke, tossing his hair over his shoulder and gazing around at the gallery walls. “So, this lovely fellow must be your most recent fascination. How long before he tires of your adoration, do you think? Longer than Reggie, or Tom, or what was his name? The red-head? This one looks extra needy. I’m sure you enjoyed that.”

Severus’s head shot up and he moved close to Luke, hissing in his face. “Don’t talk about him, and don’t speak to me. I want you to leave.”

“Oh, but Severus, I’m your biggest buyer. You need me, and I need one of this series to keep my collection current, and my record of your pathetic life intact.” Severus felt the old familiar burn of humiliation growing in him, that sense of impending failure that Luke had instilled in him for so long. Standing so close to Luke, Severus could smell his cologne, his sweat, his hair gel, like olfactory relics of his past life. It was a sour, bitter smell, and he stepped away, wrinkling his nose. Looking up at the Remus on the wall, he steeled his nerves.

“I will not sell any of these to you, Luke. Go home,” said Severus. 

“Oh, trying on a backbone, are you? Quite a surprise after you sprinted out of the country to get away from me. Very brave and mature.”

The memory of Remus lifting his glass and toasting Severus’s strength flashed through his mind. 

“Indeed. It was.” Severus said.

“So,” drawled Luke, looking around the gallery, “I notice your new muse does not seem to be here tonight, Severus. Could it be that he is tired of you already?” He leered and moved closer. “Or could it be that, like all of them, he just doesn’t want his dangly bits paraded before all of New York, just to make you a nice profit?”

Severus felt himself pale. How did Luke always know how to get to him? 

“What are you going to do when the fellowship ends, Severus? You will have to come back to London,” said Luke, his voice soft and cruel. “You know you can always come home to me. I’m sure I can arrange to take you in, sad wretch that you are. Or if I buy a few of these lovely prints, you’ll even have the money to take care of yourself, until you need me again.” 

Severus closed his eyes to block out Luke’s offer. 

Instead, he focused his mind on Remus. The Remus that came to him at that moment was not the Remus in the photos, but Remus the man, the one with the quick wit and the ability to make his heart accelerate by his mere presence. The one who smiled in extreme pain and left cereal bowls dirty for four days. The one who trusted him, and laughed for him, and whose weight he could still feel on top of him. The one he never could truly capture in a photograph. 

That Remus looked at him and said, _“Don’t listen to him. It is not too late.”_

He opened his eyes and looked out at the gallery, full of Remus, and realized Luke was correct. Remus was not there. He knew what he had to do.

Without looking at Luke, he brushed past him and walked in a determined line towards Draco, whose blue velvet suit was easy to spot. The crowd instinctively parted for him.

“Severus!” It was Luke, commanding his attention. Severus turned and pulled himself upright. He had never been more sure of anything than he was at this moment.

“Leave. I will never see you again.” He turned away and continued towards Draco.

Behind him Severus could hear a bit of commotion and then Luke’s cold voice, shouting across the crowd. “You were nothing before me, Severus Snape. I made you who you are today. You are an ungrateful shit.” 

Severus had reached Draco, who was looking over at Luke with impressed surprise. “Well, you also provide a dramatic scene in the gallery?” he whispered to Severus. “You really do have it all, darling! You are my favorite artist, ever. Shall I have him removed?” 

Severus nodded, and Draco signaled to someone, and Severus did not turn to watch what sounded like Luke suffering the indignity of being ushered to the door and tossed out into the night, in a flurry of “unhand me”s and outraged shouts. 

“No smile?” asked Draco. “He’s gone.”

Severus could not waste a moment more thinking about Luke. “I need to speak with you, Draco. Immediately. It is very important.” He started towards the office and Draco followed.

He could make this right. He could, if it was not too late.

* * * * *

It was late. The Potter-Malfoy gallery was darkened and deserted, but when Remus tried the door, it opened. Peering in, he did not see anyone. He closed the door quietly behind him, and turned around to face what was hanging there.

The walls were covered with his image, his body, his life. Remus stood in the middle of the gallery and spun in a slow circle, taking it all in, overwhelmed. The Times article had prepared him somewhat, but the reality of Severus’s intensity was overwhelming. At last his eyes settled on the photograph that Severus had taken after their first afternoon together, the photo from the poster. It was enormous, over five feet square. He breathed in slowly, a hand resting thoughtfully on his own chin, mouth agape.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, eyes wide.

A voice, creamy and deep and soft, came from a darkened corner. “I am not a subtle man.” Remus started. Severus stepped out of the shadows.

“Severus,” said Remus, his heart pounding. This was a mistake. “No, you are not.”

It was quiet, and all Remus could hear was his own ragged breathing.

“What do you think?” asked Severus, standing still, hardly visible in the dark.

Remus continued to stare at his own image, surrounding him. “That is a dangerous question.”

“What do you think?” Severus repeated, his voice soft.

“Where is everyone?” asked Remus.

“After-party. What do you think?” 

Remus swallowed. “I think…” he took a deep breath, and all he could say was the truth. “I think you are a phenomenal photographer.” 

“Where did you go?” asked Severus, taking one step towards Remus. Remus would not look at him. He couldn’t.

“Home,” Remus replied. “To my mum.”

“You were in London?” Severus asked.

“No.” Remus didn’t feel this was the time to tell his life story. “England though. I returned this morning.”

“Why are you here?” Remus could hear the tension and fear in Severus’s voice.

“You invited me,” said Remus, pulling out the postcard that Severus had left with Eduardo. 

“Ah.” 

“My mum said I should, as well,” he added. 

“Indeed?” Remus was tempted to look at Severus, because he could hear the uncertainty and hope sneak into his tone, but he refrained.

Remus took another breath and plunged in. “You are a miserable git for lying to me, Severus,” Remus started. He had practiced this part. “I trusted you, and you betrayed my tru…”

“Stop.” Severus stepped closer, into the thin light from the street. “Remus. Listen.”

Remus finally met Severus’s eyes, black and pleading and scared, even though his body was held stiff and confident. “I’m listening.”

“You were right about me, Remus. I’ve used men, many times, brought them into my life to get what I can from them as an artist, and then let them drift away. There have been many, and until now I’ve never looked back or regretted a single one…” Remus stiffened his aching shoulders at this confession, but refrained from bolting out the door. He was too curious to leave, and too eager to say his piece after Severus had spoken.

“The moment you left, I knew it was different, but I also knew it was too late. I had used you and you would never forgive me. There was nothing I could do.” Remus inhaled at the finality of this statement. “I was wrong, but it took until tonight for me to see how to repair the damage.” Remus looked at Severus again, and this time he let his own face relax into hopefulness. 

“How?”

“This is the best work I have ever done, Remus. That photograph in particular,” Severus gestured towards the large print in front of Remus, “that is the most perfect piece of art I have ever created.”

Remus looked over at the picture again, embarrassed by his own twisted body and raw emotion staring down at him. Looking down, he noticed a red dot on the sales tag. His heart stopped. “You sold it?” he said in horror.

“I had offers all night. There could have been a bidding war.” Remus felt his brow furrow in confusion. Severus paused and took a further step out into the light. “But I couldn’t sell it. I asked Draco to sell them all to me. We are taking the show down tomorrow.”

Remus stared, his mind blank. It was very quiet. “You did what?”

“I don’t give a sodding fuck about the show, Remus. It is coming down,” he stepped forward again. “I’ve spent the last several years of my life being used and manipulated and then using and manipulating others in return. I forgot that there is another way. I’m trying to remember that now.”

Remus swallowed deep, and looked around at the walls of photographs again, his heart pounding. He felt his knees lock up and his body teeter.

“Please come over here,” Remus said in a shaking voice.

“What?” asked Severus.

“I’m about to fall over.” Remus added. _And I need your arms around me right this moment_ , he thought.

Severus took three long strides and caught Remus in his long arms before he fell. He held him up and buried his face in Remus’s neck as Remus wrapped his arms around Severus’s neck. They stood wrapped in this warm embrace for several minutes, and Remus felt his legs relax and his knees bend again. Even then, the two men did not separate, just stood, holding each other in the darkened room.

Remus pulled his head back finally, so that he could look Severus in the eye. 

“Don’t take it down,” he said, and Remus realized with surprise that he really did not want Severus to clear out the gallery. “Leave it, let it stay. I always said to you that I wanted to separate _us_ from your work. This show is something good for you. I want you to show people how talented you are.” _Damn_ , Remus said to himself, _my mum was right_. She had advised him to at least see the show and to talk to Severus again, and consider if he could find a way to forgive him. She was a wise woman. She must have known Remus was in love. 

Remus was suddenly filled with a leaping sense of joy. He was in love. He lifted a hand to Severus’s face and then leaned in and kissed his lips, very gently.

“Do not ever, ever lie to me again. This is your only second chance,” he said into Severus’s lips. 

“I know,” said Severus. “I did not expect even this.”

The next kiss was deeper and harder, but still tentative, as if Severus could not believe it was happening and would not allow himself to give in and accept he might be forgiven so easily. 

Remus thought he could take care of his hesitation. “Severus, I do have a confession for you,” he murmured into Severus’s neck. He could feel the man’s entire body tense. 

“When I was at my most angry, I realized I had a way to get back at you, and revenge sounded rather sweet.” Remus kept his arms around Severus’s shoulders, but stepped back as he warmed to his story. He wanted to see every bit of Severus’s reaction, “I have been writing poems about you. Dozens of them.” At that, Severus drew back a step, and his eyes narrowed. 

“Have you?” he asked. “Why did you not tell me?” Remus gave him a withering look and Severus rolled his eyes. “Fine. I deserved that. May I read them soon?”

“Well, the fact is, Severus, soon, everyone will be able to read them. Just after I left you, I sent the collection into a  
few publishers I have contact with, and one of them loved it. The entire collection is going to be published. It will be my first book.” Remus grinned. “And it is all about you.”

“You are going to be published,” he said in an unreadable tone.

Remus nodded and smiled. “And then we will be even,” he said, brow raised in challenge.

Remus could not tell at first if the look on Severus’s face was anger or amusement, but his eyes were boring into Remus’s with a frightening intensity. 

After a long moment, Severus leaned in and kissed him, really kissed him, no more of the tentative confusion, slamming teeth into Remus’s lips, prying into him with an eager tongue, stealing Remus’s breath. Remus tangled his hands into Severus long hair and pulled him close. 

“So you are not angry about the poems?” asked Remus.

“Would it make a difference?” replied Severus.

Remus considered. “No. Except for one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Severus, pulling at Remus’s jacket.

“If you are angry, you might not want to fuck me, and I want you, right here, right now,” murmured Remus. 

Severus let out a low sound like a growl and pushed Remus backwards, still claiming his mouth in a deep kiss, until his back slammed into the gallery wall. “Ouch,” said Remus with a laugh. He looked up and realized he was pressed against the enormous photo of himself sitting on the bed. Severus was already grappling with Remus’s belt, and Remus was pulling open the buttons of Severus’s black shirt, revealing his trim chest. 

They could not get their clothes unfastened fast enough. Severus freed Remus’s thickening cock from his jeans and he pressed himself against Severus in response, feeling Severus‘s surging erection against him and grinding with his body to generate warm friction. Severus moaned and thrust back at Remus until Remus was able to nudge Severus’s black trousers down and grab both of their cocks in one spit-slicked hand, stroking in urgent rhythm. Severus laced his fingers through Remus’s, so that their two hands together were pulling and caressing and taking them deeper into oblivion.

He was not going to last long, and that was not the point, Remus knew. They would have all night, and tomorrow, and an entire lifetime to find slow pleasure in each other. Now was about claiming and forgiving and acknowledging this was real. Though they were not yet cured and returned to a state of trust, they would be. As their hands moved together, urging each other toward the edge, Remus pressed his forehead to Severus’s and met his eyes, bathed in Severus‘s heat and black gaze, their breathing ragged, until they plunged together over the precipice, hot come dripping over their tangled hands. Sliding to the ground in a tangle of legs and sticky mess and half-buttoned clothes, Remus collapsed against Severus’s chest as Severus threw his head back against the wall with a sigh. Remus breathed slowly, inhaling Severus, imprinting this moment on his memory like his own multi-sensory photograph. 

“Remus,” said Severus in an odd tone, through his teeth. He had lifted his head and was staring past Remus’s head.

“Yes?” asked Remus, snuggled against Severus’s chest.

“There are people.”

“Hmm?” Remus asked, looking up. 

“People. Watching. At the window.” Severus tilted his head towards the huge windows of the gallery. There was, in fact, a small crowd, six or seven people, looking in with glee. As Remus turned his head to look at them, one of the women waved. Eyes wide, Remus lifted his hand and waved back.

“Perhaps they think we are part of the art?” said Remus.

“Perhaps they are correct,” replied Severus, and he pulled Remus’s head around and kissed him once more, soft and powerful. “Perhaps this _is_ our art.”

Remus snorted. “That is the most pretentious thing anyone has ever said to me.” Remus could not stop himself from giving Severus a teasing smack on the shoulder. 

“I’m a photographer, it is what I do,” said Severus, in a deadpan, and Remus laughed. 

“Shall we pull up our trousers for our adoring fans?” he asked.

“Indeed.” 

“Severus?” Remus said.

“Yes?”

“I love New York.” For the first time since Remus had known him, Severus smiled, a thin, wide smile, and Remus smiled back.

* * * * *

Later, in his flat, while Remus slept, Severus crept out of bed and pulled on his glasses. He really could see more clearly now. How had he allowed himself to go so long without them? 

He dug through his files to find the photo that had started this all, the shot of Remus, alone and needy and in pain amongst the commuters at the bus stop. Picturing the strong-willed, content, soon-to-be-published author currently sated and dozing in his bed, Severus felt a strange sense of satisfaction. This photo had become a part of their history. So much had changed, for both of them. But he would start there. At the beginning.

Severus returned to the bedroom to prop the photo up where Remus would see it when he awoke. Severus would share it with Remus, and they would talk about what they saw in it, and he could explain why he had become fascinated, and he would begin again with Remus, with no secrets, no agendas, free of his past. 

Tomorrow then, perhaps, Remus would let him read one of his poems. 

The photos and the poems would always be there, Severus thought, but they were mere hints of their real selves, only snapshots in their story. 

The real Remus let out a little moaning sigh in his sleep. Putting the photo down, Severus hurried to the bed, curled up next to him, rubbed his tormented back, and slept, with no walls, real or imagined, between them.


End file.
